


Fire Meet Gasoline

by humanveil



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dark Will Graham, Erotic Murder Talk, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Slow Burn, Tender Cannibalistic Gestures, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5474906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dark desires of Will Graham's mind emerge long before the killing of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, and by the time he comes into contact with Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the suppressed cravings within him are more than ready to be ignited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me at four am and wouldn't leave me alone, so this just sort of happened. Title and beginning quotes come from the Sia song [Fire Meet Gasoline](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fNdeLSKSZ1M).
> 
> *
> 
> Spanish translation by [LameNate](https://www.wattpad.com/user/LameNate) available [here.](https://www.wattpad.com/story/121561999-fire-meet-gasoline-hannigram-versi%C3%B3n-en-espa%C3%B1ol)

_flame you came to me_

_fire meet gasoline_

_fire meet gasoline_

_i'm burning alive_

_*_

_The door opens with a loud bang, the sound reverberating throughout the empty hallway. It goes unnoticed; the adrenaline pumping in your veins, the too loud sound of your heartbeat in your ears, drowns everything else out. You follow his movements and travel swiftly to the kitchen, stopping dead when you see him; knife to a whimpering girl’s throat, an all too familiar gleam in his eyes._

_Your hands are, in the literal sense, already covered in blood. They tremble as you point the gun, silently pleading with him to, at the very least, spare the girl._

_It’s almost as if he smiles at you, mocks you, when he pulls the knife across her throat with an expert’s ease._

_You don’t wait for him to do any more damage. You pull the trigger; once, twice, ten times. The sound of the gun can’t be ignored, each shot shocks through your body from head to toe, and you can’t help but feel—_

Will wakes with a start at the annoying buzz of a phone vibrating against wood, at the series of _bings,_ loud in his otherwise silent bedroom, indicating a phone call. Groaning, he reaches blindly for the rectangular device, fingers curling around it and bringing it to his ear.

“Will Graham.”

*

“Special Agent Jack Crawford, FBI. May I come in?”

Hannibal’s eyes flash over the identification card, the badge, and he nods, forcing a polite smile to his face. He pushes the door inwards and allows Jack to enter before him, watching as the other man takes in his office décor.

“May I ask what this is about?”

“Alana didn’t tell you?” Jack asks, but doesn’t wait for a reply. “Dr. Bloom showed me some of your work, it’s very impressive. She recommended I get your assistance with one of my employees. Will Graham,” he says, as if the name is supposed to mean anything to Hannibal.

“How would I be of assistance?”

“I need your help with a psychological profile. Will has a,” he pauses, contemplating. “Unique skill. He can get inside the heads of serial killers, empathise with them.”

Hannibal’s interest peaks and he tilts his head to the side slightly, “You’re worried for his wellbeing.”

Jack nods, “He just killed a man. Shot him ten times. He’s been a bit off since then, and he won’t speak with anyone. I was hoping you’d be able to talk to him.”

“You want me to determine his stability?”

“If you would.”

Hannibal smiles softly, “I’m free seven-thirty tomorrow evening. If he agrees, I’ll see him then.”

*

The man who paces his waiting room at seven thirty the next day is not what Hannibal had expected.

Unlike the pristine suits Hannibal had grown to associate with federal agents, the man is dressed in ill-fitting red flannel, tucked haphazardly into dark beige pants. There are black framed glasses pressed to his face, and while it may be a trick of the light, Hannibal thinks the man’s hands are shaking.

The gun holstered to the man’s right hip does not go unnoticed.

“Will Graham?”

The body halts, head snapping in his direction. There is no smile, just a stoic face of indifference.

“Yes.”

“Please, come in.”

Will stares at him for a moment before entering the room, eyes flicking from wall to wall. “Do you usually have patients this late, doctor?”

“Not usually, no,” Hannibal answers, hands clasped neatly behind his back while he watches the other man. “Is that what you are? A patient?”

“Would I be here if I weren’t?”

“I was under the impression that we were merely going to have a conversation?”

“Were you?”

“Yes,” Hannibal replies, standing perfectly still while the other man paces the length of the room. “Those were the instructions.”

“I told Jack not to have me psychoanalysed.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened, Will.”

The shorter man stops his movements and looks at him again, making eye contact for a split second before looking away, contemplating. He’s silent for a short while, and Hannibal waits, patiently, for Will to set the pace.

“Okay,” he says quietly, moving to sit in one of the two chairs. He presses against the back cushion as Hannibal takes the other seat, head tilting back slightly as he closes his eyes, remembering.

_…six, seven, eight. The body drops to the floor, chest covered in holes sweeping warm, sickly crimson. Holes you put there, with your hands stained in blood; now both literally and figuratively._

_A burst of pleasure blossoms in your chest as you watch the other man gasp silently for air, the feeling only disappearing when the girl chokes, body curving in on itself. You drop to the floor next to her—_

The small smile that had appeared on Will’s face vanishes as quick as it came, and he opens his eyes, posture righting itself so he’s looking in the general direction of the doctor.

“I’m sure you know I killed a man, Dr. Lecter.”

“Indeed, I do.”

“Then what else is there to know?”

“Circumstance.”

“Circumstance?” Will asks, laughing humourlessly. “A murder is a murder,” he says, and Hannibal can hear the sardonic tone; as if Will’s repeating words once uttered to a past version of himself.

“Not always,” he murmurs, crossing one leg over the other. “I hear this man was a serial killer. That he killed someone in front of you?”

“Two people,” Will corrects, grimacing. “His wife and their daughter. Slit their throats.”

Hannibal pays special attention to the way Will answers, looks for any showing of emotion, for a lack of it. He’d known the answers; Jack had told him as much.

“How did it make you feel?”

The humourless chuckle fills the room again, and Hannibal suppresses a smirk.

“Is that the best you’ve got, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal does smirk at that, eyes never leaving the other man’s face. “Did the atrocities Garrett Jacob Hobbs commit make killing him feel good? Righteous?”

Hannibal allows himself to feel triumphant at the shocked expression he gets in return; the slight widening of eyes and parting of lips as Will stumbles for an answer.

“Did it please you?” Hannibal continues, voice so quiet it barely carries to where Will sits. “Did it become more pleasurable with each shot, Will? Is that why you pulled the trigger so many times?”

The man before him exhales a shuddering breath, one hand moving to rub at the dusting of stubble whilst the other holds the seat’s arm rest, fingers digging into the cushion. Will’s eyes close shut again, and Hannibal sees the smile emerge once more.

_Pleasure. Yes, you remember the pleasure. The jittery excitement that caused your hands to tremble._

“Righteous?” Will repeats, the word rolling over his tongue as his eyes open to meet Hannibal’s. “You could say that, yes.”

“Agent Crawford believes you’ve been damaged,” Hannibal tells him, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward in his chair. “That you’re unstable.”

“I’m not.”

A small, knowing smile graces Hannibal’s features when he replies; “I believe you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: a brief description of a hurt animal, implied sexual assault, and graphic depictions of violence in this chapter.
> 
> Also, there's some canon dialogue (which is weird because it's usually a pet peeve of mine). There might be some more in future chapters, but not a lot. I'll only add it if I either think it's important to the relationship dynamic or if it helps explain stuff I'd otherwise have no idea how to explain. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_strike the match, strike the match now_

_we're a perfect match, perfect somehow_

_we were meant for one another_

_come a little closer_

_*_

“What he has is pure empathy,” Hannibal tells Jack when the agent calls the next day. “He can assume your point of view, or mine, and maybe some other point of view that scare him. It’s an uncomfortable gift, Jack.”

_“But he’s stable?”_

“Yes.”

_“That’s all I need. Thank you, doctor.”_

_*_

“Wait up, Graham!”

Head snapping in the direction of the voice, Will stops as he sees Beverly jogging towards him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says, a little breathless. “I just finished for the day, I was wondering if you wanted to get something to eat.”

“Oh,” Will murmurs as he continues walking. “I’ve got plans, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she shrugs, holding the door open for Will to leave the building first. “Dinner plans, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“This a date?”

Will rolls his eyes as Beverly winks at him, a grin gracing her features as they walk side by side to their cars.

“More like my psychiatrist invited me to dinner.”

“Isn’t that breaking some kind of ethical code?”

“It would be, I guess, but he’s not officially my ps—”

Will stops abruptly when a figure appears before them, red hair falling down her back and a recording device in her hands. The mostly relaxed state he’d been in disappears in an instant, his posture straightening as tension consumes his body. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Beverly’s grin die to be replaced by a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes.

“What do you want?”

“How does it feel to be a killer, Graham?”

“Fuck off, Freddie.”

“Good?”

“Go to—”

“Is that why you let the girl die?”

“I didn’t _let_ anyo—”

“Personally I’m surprised you’re still allowed to wo—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Beverly cuts in, grabbing Will’s arm and pushing him around Freddie.

She continues to push him in the direction of his car, rolling her eyes as Freddie calls out behind them, the sound of her heels clanking against gavel as she rushes to follow.

“Do you feel proud for killing the Minnesota Shrike, Graham? Righteous?”

Will can see Beverly takes a deep breath before forcing a smile to her face and turning around, “Piss off and do something better with your time, yeah?”

“Can’t speak for yourself, Graham? Nothing to say?”

“ _Goodbye_ ,” Will calls out when they finally reach his car. Opening the door, he turns to mutter a quick _I’ll see you tomorrow_ to Beverly before getting in and putting his belt on. He shuts his eyes for a moment, head resting against the worn fabric of his seat, before turning the car on.

Pulling away from the building, he suppresses the urge run the reporter over.

*

He’s barely through the front door when Hannibal notices something’s wrong.

“Are you alright, Will?”

Will nods as the older man leads him from the entryway to the kitchen, his eyes trailing over the refined décor of Hannibal’s home. The aura of sophistication it radiates makes him feel out of place, almost as if he and his chaotic mind don’t deserve to be there.  

“You seem bothered by something.”

“It’s nothing,” he assures him. “Just work.”

“The shooting?”

“No.”

“You can talk to me, Will. I listen to people’s problems for a living, after all.”

“One would think, after doing that all day, you’d want a break when you finally come home.”

Hannibal smiles, “Wine?”

*

“Navarin D'Agneau,” Hannibal murmurs, placing a dish in front of him that, to Will, just looks like a fancy version of meat and vegetables.

“Thank you,” he says, fidgeting uncomfortably until Hannibal takes his own seat.

He waits for Hannibal to take a bite of his own food before picking up the knife and fork placed neatly next to his plate. He’s careful of how he handles the cutlery, conscious of the fact that the doctor would expect adequate table manners. Bringing a forkful of meat to his mouth, he suppresses a moan as it falls apart, the flavours coating his taste buds.

He swallows before looking towards Hannibal, “This is good, better than anything I could make.”

Hannibal’s mouth tilts into a tiny smile, “A lot of time and practice, my good Will.”

The endearment makes Will want to laugh, but he suspects that doing so could be considered rude, so he just takes another measured bite of what he assumes is lamb, his eyes fixed on the red of his wine.

“I spoke to Jack earlier today.”

“Oh?”

“He asked my opinion of you.”

“What did you say?”

“That you were stable,” Hannibal tells him. “Fit for work.”

“Do you think he views me as stable?”

“I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup. The finest china used only for special guests.”

Will lets his fork drop to his plate as he laughs, the noise loud in the vast dining room. “How do you see me?”

“The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by.”

Will’s not exactly sure what to think of that, but he dutifully picks up his fork when Hannibal tells him to finish his food, their conversation turning to lighter topics.

 

*

“I read Freddie Lounds’ article.”

“Please tell me you don’t usually read Tattle Crime, Doctor Lecter.”

“Every now and then.”

“Tasteless journalism.”

“I’ll agree with you on that. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes.”

“The name ‘Gunner Graham’ doesn’t bother you?”

“I didn’t come here to discuss that.”

“What did you come here to do, Will?”

“Enjoy a meal with someone who doesn’t believe I’m a crazy psychopath.”

“Very well.”

*

“He’s making angels,” Will finds himself saying a few weeks later, back in Hannibal’s office.

“Angels?”

“Skinning people,” Will clarifies. “Hanging them as angels and making them act as guardians while he sleeps.”

“That’s…peculiar.”

“He’s scared.”

“What is he scared of?”

“Mortality, he doesn’t want to die in his sleep.”

Hannibal watches as Will rubs tiredly at his cheek, fingers tracing against stubble as the profiler shuts his eyes, inhaling deeply.

“It’s bothering you.”

“Yes,” Will tells him. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know how much I can tell you. Jack—”

“Forget about Jack for the moment, Will. You may not officially be my patient, but I have no plans of mentioning anything that gets said inside this room to other people. I promise you.”

“People break promises all the time.”

“I can assure you I am not one of those people. If I make a promise, Will, I intend to keep it.”

Will sighs, “He’s hard to profile,” he says eventually. “The brain tumour can easily change the way he thinks, it’s…”

“Unnerving?” Hannibal supplies, continuing when the other man nods. “This doesn’t happen very often, I take it.”

“No,” Will tells him. “I can usually profile anyone. The last killer I had serious trouble with was…”

Hannibal tilts his head to the side as Will trails off again. “Was…?” he prompts.

“The Chesapeake Ripper,” he replies, eyes shutting as he leans forward, elbows resting above his knees. 

Hannibal suppresses a smile as he crosses one leg over the other, his fingers linking together over one knee. “Why couldn’t you profile the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“There isn’t a set pattern,” Will says. “Some killings are similar, but there isn’t a pattern. He’s an intelligent psychopath. They’re always hard to profile.”

“Do you think this angel maker is an intelligent psychopath?”

“No. He’s just afraid.”

“Does the Ripper still bother you, Will?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do you think of him?”

The room is silent for a moment, the only audible noise coming from Will’s deep breathing and the wind outside. Hannibal waits patiently, unwilling to rush this particular conversation.

“I can appreciate the beauty,” Will finally murmurs, sighing deeply as he leans back in his chair again. “The…artistic skill, however horrific. There was a period of time where they thought the Shrike may have been him.”

“But you thought otherwise?”

“The Shrike loved his victims; the Ripper views his as pigs. Nothing but meat to mutilate.”

“You don’t sound disgusted.”

Will meets Hannibal’s eyes then, a small smile on his face. “I said I could appreciate the beauty, the intelligence. If one found the works of serial killers impressive, the Ripper’s victims would be notable,” he tells the other man, pausing briefly before adding, “Of course, that’s exactly what he wants.”

“How so?”

“No one would spend that much time, that much effort, to display their victims if they didn’t want people to marvel at their work. The Ripper risks getting caught by staying behind to make something that, in his opinion, was once ugly and unpleasant a masterpiece.”

“Is that what you think he turns his victims into, Will? Masterpieces?”

“Don’t you?”

Hannibal ignores the question, “You keep these thoughts from those you work with.”

“I don’t think agents of the FBI would appreciate me sympathising with the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“But you believe I would?”

“I think you would appreciate many aspects of my mind’s darker musings, Doctor Lecter. Not just my…immoral views on the works of serial killers.”

Hannibal smiles again, amused, and Will finds himself returning the gesture.

“I hope you catch your angel maker, Will.”

*

Looking up at the hanging man, their angel maker, Will shakes his head in an attempt to remove the remnants of his hallucination. He runs his hands through his unkempt curls, fingers tugging softly as he spares the mutilated body one more look.

He’s angry. At the killer, at Jack, at himself. He feels wrong…off. Like there’s something undefinable bubbling up inside of him that needs to come out, that _he_ needs to let out.

Jack’s parting words play in his head as he turns to leave, and Will thinks that perhaps he should quit. To spite the other man, if nothing else.

It’s a long drive home, and his anger grows hotter and stronger with each passing mile.

*

The hues of the sky have just started to darken when Will pulls into his Wolf Trap home, the previously light blue turning to a darker, murkier kind of navy. It looks as if it’s about to rain.

He slams the car door shut when he exits, more than ready for some whiskey and a hot shower. If he’s lucky, he might even manage a few hours of decent sleep; God knows he needs it.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Will almost misses the low, pained whine of an animal. Almost.

He stops abruptly, his eyes snapping wildly around the entry of his home before he spots it. There’s a small trail of blood against the faded, white paint of the floor, and his eyes follow it to land on one of his dogs, huddled near the front door and curled in on itself. He moves quickly, crouching down near the animal and touching it gently.

“Buster,” he murmurs, frowning when the pup whines again. “What happened, buddy?”

He looks over the small animal and his frown intensifies as he spots a small cut, blood colouring the white fur surrounding it. He examines it carefully, relief swelling in his chest when he realises it’s just a shallow surface wound.

He gives the dog a quick scratch behind his ears before standing, “I’ll get some stuff to fix you.”

His key is in the lock when he stops again.

He looks back towards Buster, and although he knows the dog won’t be able to answer him, he still verbally asks, “Who let you outside, Buster?”

He gets another pitiful wine in response and sighs. Looking around the outside of his house, he spots an old, rusted crowbar resting neat the bottom of the stairs. Without much thought, he moves to pick it up, preferring to be safe than sorry.

Opening the door, he drops his keys on the bench and lets the bar slip into his right hand, ready for a fight if it presents itself. He doesn’t bother closing the door as he walks further into his unlit home, his other dogs running first to him, and then out to the yard. He turns to watch the last one leave, barking happily as it runs after the rest of the pack.

For a brief moment, he thinks he’s worried over nothing.

And then he sees him.

Propped up by an old armchair in the corner of his living room sits a man; the light from outside gleaming off of a shaved head, while still keeping his face hidden in shadows.

“Welcome home, detective.”

Will narrows his eyes at the unfamiliar figure, he hadn’t been a _detective_ in a long time.

“You were very hard to find,” the voice continues, traces of a northern accent evident. He doesn’t recognise the voice.

“You seemed to have managed,” he replies, voice even and eerily calm for the situation.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

The mystery man stands, eyes trained on Will’s face as he moves closer.

“Can’t say I do.”

A haunting, humourless laugh fills the room, and Will tightens the grip on the crowbar.

“Michael Spencer,” the voice says. “You put me away ten years ago.”

Vague memories of an attempted murder flash in Will’s mind, and he smiles. “You’ve been a good boy then, Mikey? To be let out already?”

Spencer steps closer, the action moving him into the light the open doorway offers. Immediately, Will can see the scarring; what used to be a pretty face has been disfigured, thick scar tissue running down the left side of his face, from his eyebrow down to his chin.

The laugh fills the room again, though Will can feel the hidden pain behind it.

“Do you have any idea what they did to me?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “What _you_ did to me, detective.”

“Actually, the correct term is now agent,” Will tells him. “And I did nothing to you.”

“YES, YOU DID!” the voice yells, and Will’s proud of himself when he doesn’t react to the unexpected increase in volume. “It was _your fault_. All of it was your fault.”

“If you didn’t want to be tormented in prison, Mikey, then you shouldn’t have tried to kill your girlfriend.”

The other man lunges at him, an animalistic growl leaving his mouth, and Will sees the glint of a sharp blade just in time. He manages to duck, narrowly missing the first blow as the ex-con stumbles forward. Will manages a swift kick to the joint behind Spencer’s left knee, and satisfaction blossoms in his chest when the other man grunts in pain. The satisfaction is short lived, though, and the anger from before resurfaces as Spencer manages to get a few good punches in. Will steps out of reach as Mikey tries to stab him again, his right arm rising above his head before bringing the crowbar down in a fluid motion. The curved ending connects with the other man’s shoulder with a sickening _crack_ , and Will yanks it out before repeating the motion.

He smiles as blood stains Mikey’s white shirt, the crimson looking near black in the dim light. He lifts the bar to hit him again, but Spencer manages to jump away just in time. The ex-con uses Will’s surprise as an advantage and ducks low before managing to stick the knife into Will’s thigh, blood spurting out of the wound as he quickly pulls the knife out and does it again a few inches below.

The adrenalin cursing through Will’s body stops him from feeling any pain, and he uses their positioning to wack Mikey in the back of the head with the blunt end of the bar. The man falls to the floor, blood still spilling from his shoulder, and he tries to grab Will, to clutch onto clothing and pull him to the ground as well.

Will manages to stumble out of reach, and he channels the thoughts and feelings of every killer he’s ever profiled. He smiles as his mind’s voice for the Chesapeake Ripper tells him to pierce the skin with the bar. He brings the crowbar down on Mikey’s head a few more times, a sense of calm clarity replacing his anger with each crack of bone, before obeying the voice. He uses the sharp, cured end of the metal bar to dig into the flesh of the other man’s neck, and pushes so it’s lodged through.

Choking and gurgling noises leave Mikey’s mouth as his throat rips open, blood spilling out of his body and all over Will’s carpet at a rapid rate. Will watches, eyes wide with a manic smile on his face, as the other man bleeds to death on his floor.

The adrenalin slowly leaves his body as he watches, and he finds himself stumbling backwards, falling into one of his armchairs as the pain of his leg registers. He looks down, notices the gushing blood and the knife still stuck in the flesh, and touches his thigh gingerly. He’s going to need a few stitches, at the very least.

Will doesn’t think he’d be able to drive to the hospital with his leg like that, and, with a still bleeding body on his floor, there’s no way he can call an ambulance.

So he does the only other option he has. Fishing his phone from his pocket, he calls Hannibal.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have any extensive medical knowledge, just basic knowledge of CPR and other stuff most people know from personal experience, so please don't take the treating of Will's wounds too seriously.  ~~I did some research, though, so hopefully it's somewhat correct.~~
> 
> Chapter warnings: brief mention of domestic violence, talk sexual assault, more graphic depictions of violence, and the other general stuff involved with a show like Hannibal.

  _when the fire dies_

_darkened skies_

_hot ash, dead match_

_only smoke is left_

_it's a bad debt_

_*_

Will presses down on the gushing wound, attempting to halt the blood flow, as he waits for Hannibal to answer. He’s noticed the doctor’s more casual approach to the topic of murder, and he hopes his suspicions about the other man are, at the very least, remotely true. He’s not particularly in the mood for a court case.

He’s about to hang up and try again when the phone clicks, signalling the beginning of a conversation.

_“Will?”_

His voice sounds a lot more pained than he’d like when he asks, “You said you were a surgeon?”

 _“What happened?”_ Hannibal asks, and Will can easily pick up on the genuine concern in the other man’s voice. _“Are you alright?”_

“I may have been stabbed.”

_“Stabbed?”_

“Twice.”

_“By who?”_

“Not important right now, Doctor Lecter.”

_“Where?”_

“My thigh.”

_“How bad is it?”_

“Bad, I think. There’s a lot of blood, Hannibal.”

_“Where are you?”_

“At home.”

_“I’ll call a—”_

“No, don’t. You can’t.”

_“Why?”_

“Because you can’t. I need _you_ to come,” Will says, voice breathless. “Preferably quickly. And with painkillers.”

_“Are the wounds deep?”_

“Kind of.”

 _“That’s not an appropriate answer, Will,”_ Hannibal says, and Will can hear him rushing around on the other end of the phone.

“I think I’ll need stitches.”

 _“Wonderful,”_ Hannibal deadpans. _“An ambulance would get there quicker.”_

“And you’ll see why that’s not an option when _you_ get here.”

Hannibal sighs, and Will can hear the slamming of a door. _“Are you applying pressure to the wounds?”_

“To one of them. The knife’s still in my leg.”

 _“Don’t remove it.”_ Hannibal tells him, and Will can hear the engine of a car start.

“I wasn’t going to.”

 _“Good._ ”

“How long will you be?”

_“I’ll get there as fast as I can. Remember to remain calm.”_

“’s easy for you to say.”

_“Try and apply pressure to both wounds, preferably with something other than just your fingers. Use a cloth if it’s on hand; your shirt if necessary. Don’t let your dogs infect it.”_

“How do I apply pressure if the knife’s still in it?”

_“Apply pressure around the knife as best you can. If it’s possible, press down on the main artery closest to the wounds as well as the wounds themselves.”_

“I…Okay.”

_“I’ll be there shortly, Will.”_

“Yeah, hurry up.”

*

By the time Will hears Hannibal pull up next to his own car, his eye are heavy lidded and half of his dogs have surrounded him, worried, while the other half are either sniffing the dead body on the floor, or outside keeping Buster company. There hadn’t been a cloth on hand, and he hadn’t wanted to move, so he sits with chest bare, his shirt soaked with blood and pressed tightly against his injured thigh.

His house is cast in darkness, and Hannibal has to fumble for a light switch when he appears at the door.  Will watches as his face contorts from concern to a look of mild surprise as he takes in the body on the floor, the copious amount of blood staining the carpet around it, as well as the chair Will sits in.

“I see why an ambulance wasn’t an option.”

“Yes.”

“Although,” he says, stepping over the cooling body of Michael Spencer as if he weren’t even there, “I wish you would have told be about the carpet. I have a self-made concoction at home that helps with the staining.”

“I’ve been meaning to rip it up, anyway,” Will mumbles. “Dog piss is easier to clean off of wood.”

Hannibal huffs a laugh as he places his hand on Will’s neck gently, checking the other man’s pulse before dropping to the floor in front of him. Looking over the area of the wounds, he says, “I hope you don’t like these pants, Will.”

“Why?”

Pulling on a pair of surgical gloves, Hannibal nods to the trauma shears resting on top of the bag he’d brought with him, “Because I have to cut them.”

“Right,” Will mumbles, exhaling deeply as he leans back in the armchair.

He watches, transfixed, as Hannibal’s demeanour changes. The sardonic persona vanishes to be replaced with a professional one, the other man working with ease as he swiftly removes the cloth surrounding Will’s leg. Moving Will’s hands out of the way, he examines the wounds carefully, sighing as he assesses the damage.

“You’re lucky he didn’t get the artery.”

“Thank God for small mercies,” Will grumbles in reply, watching as Hannibal reaches back to the bag before pulling out a small, rectangular box.

Opening the box quickly, the doctor pulls out a green circular tube and passes it to Will, “Inhale it.”

“What is it?”

“A Penthrox inhaler,” Hannibal says, quickly returning to the wound. “It will reduce your pain to a light tickle.”

Will doesn’t need to be told any more than that. Bringing the object to his mouth, he inhales hesitantly, sighing as some of the pain begins to ebb away.

“It will also make you slightly high.”

“ _What_?” Will asks, looking at him oddly.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing too serious. Now,” Hannibal murmurs, handing him a new cloth, “Press down around the knife while I take care of the open wound.”

Will grimaces but follows the doctor’s instructions, watching as Hannibal begins to disinfect the cut. He inhales more pain reliever, glad at the weird, light feeling that clouds his head as the pain continues to disappear. His vision blurs slightly as he stares at Hannibal’s face, at the evident concentration that sits there as he tries to help heal Will’s wounds as effectively as possible.

The loss of blood mixed with the pain reliever makes him lightheaded, and he finds himself closing his eyes as Hannibal pulls out the appropriate equipment to stitch the deep cut.

“Keep your eyes open.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t lose consciousness, Will.”

“’m tired.”

“I don’t care,” Hannibal tells him firmly. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Will opens his eyes and looks at the top of Hannibal’s head, “What?”

“Talk to me, Will. Stay awake.”

Will watches as Hannibal starts to stitch the first wound, glad the cut isn’t as wide as it is deep.

“I haven’t got any pants on.”

Hannibal huffs another laugh, “You’re not incorrect.”

“Hmm?”

“You have _a_ pant leg on.”

Will inhales more pain reliever, “And no shirt.”

“Are you embarrassed?”

“’dunno,” Will murmurs. “How can you talk and concentrate on stitching me up at the same time?”

“Practice.”

“Do you do this a lot?”

“I used to.”

Will mumbles something illegible and continues to watch while Hannibal finishes stitching the first cut, fascinated at the sight. “You’re good at this.”

Hannibal hums, “Will?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to pull the knife out now.”

“Okay.”

The doctor nods before carefully removing the knife from Will’s flesh, grimacing as blood starts to spurt from the wound and on to his clothes at a rapid rate. Had Will told him the circumstances, Hannibal would have brought his plastic hazmat suit. It would’ve made the clean-up incredibly easier.

The bag he’s brought with him is well stocked with apt medical equipment, but he still wishes they were in a real hospital, or at least in his home, so he could properly take care of Will’s wounds. Nevertheless, Hannibal works quickly to stop the blood and stitch the wound, only half paying attention as Will mumbles to his dogs about something he can’t quite make out. Once both wounds are stitched, Hannibal removes his gloves and places them atop of the blood soaked cloth before producing more wipes and disinfectant.

“Stand for me, please, Will.”

It takes a moment, but the injured man eventually manages to stand, his hands resting on Hannibal’s shoulders to balance himself. He sighs as Hannibal begins to wipe the blood from his thigh, hands moving almost idly until Will’s smooth skin is free of blood.

“Tell me if it’s too tight,” Hannibal says as he pulls gauze from the bag and begins to cover the cuts.

Will nods, the action causing a wave of dizziness that makes him shut his eyes. “I want to sleep,” he mumbles.

“Soon.”

“What about the body?”

Hannibal sighs, “I’ll take care of the body.”

“How?”

“We’re lucky you live in a secluded area, my good Will.”

“What about Buster?”

“Buster?”

“My dog. He’s hurt. He hurt him.”

The doctor finishes dressing the wounds and stands, hands grabbing a hold of Will’s upper arms to help keep balance, “I’ll take care of Buster, too, Will.”

“Promise?” Will whispers, and he looks so incredibly vulnerable when he says it that Hannibal moves one of his hands to tenderly brush the curls from his eyes.

“I promise, Will,” he murmurs. “Now let’s get you to bed.”

The temporary pain relief starts to wear as Hannibal gently pushes Will to his bed, an amused smile on his face as the injured man groans and tries to remove the one pant leg he’s still got on. He eventually succeeds and lies on his back, smiling as Hannibal puts a blanket on his almost completely naked body.

“Are you alright?” Hannibal asks, his fingers checking Will’s pulse once more.

Rather than giving an appropriate answer, Will stares at him for a moment before blurting out, “The Chesapeake Ripper spoke to me.”

Hannibal arches an eyebrow, “What did he say?”

“To put the bar in his neck,” Will mumbles, face rubbing against his pillow. “’s how I killed him.”

“Well,” says Hannibal, “I thank the Chesapeake Ripper for his advice.”

*

When Will wakes the next day, it’s to the sound of his dogs barking happily outside, a horrible ache in his left leg, and the smell of someone cooking in the kitchen.

Disorientated from sleep, it takes a few moments for him to remember what happened the night before, but his eyes widen and he jumps out of bed when the memories piece together. He moves swiftly to the kitchen, dressed only in boxers that are still covered in blood, and stares dumbly at the figure standing above his stove.

“Hannibal?” he asks, rubbing one of his eyes.

Hannibal spares him a glance, a smirk on his face, before refocusing on the meal he’s preparing, “Good morning, Will.”

“Wha—” Will starts, stopping as he looks towards his living room.

The body of Michael Spencer has disappeared, yet the previously beige carpet is now tinged pink, remnants of blood staining the fabric beyond repair. The covers of the chair he had collapsed in were gone, but he could still see traces of blood on the yellow stained cushion. 

“I’ve organised to fix the carpet,” Hannibal says. “You needn’t worry.”

“How?”

“I have many connections, Will,” Hannibal murmurs, looking at him once again. “Now, there’s a painkiller on your table. Take it and put on some pants while I finish cooking breakfast.”

The mention of the word breakfast reinforces the scents coming from whatever Hannibal has in the frypan, and Will’s stomach grumbles as he’s reminded of his hunger. He follows Hannibal’s instructions without much thought, taking the mentioned pill before disappearing into his room to put a pair of loose pyjama pants on. Buster runs through the open door as he re-emerges into the main rooms of his home, and he smiles, ignoring the pain in his leg to crouch down and greet the dog.

“Hey, buddy,” he murmurs, scratching behind the Jack Russell’s tiny ears. Buster barks happily in response, his tail wagging, and Will looks towards Hannibal. “You fixed him for me?”

Hannibal huffs a breath of laughter, “Your dog is rather overly dramatic, Will. The wound was minor, yet with the way I found him outside, you’d think he was dying.”

Will laughs and stands, moving to rest against the counter not too far from Hannibal. “All the same,” he says, crossing his arms against his bare chest. “Thank you.”

“Mm,” Hannibal hums, adding an egg mixture to the meat in the pan. “How’s your leg?”

“Sore,” Will tells him honestly. “It bled a little. Can’t wait for the pain relief to kick in.”

“A good meal will make you feel better, hopefully.”

“I haven’t eaten since late morning yesterday,” Will confesses, rubbing a hand against his stubble.

“That isn’t healthy.”

“Blame Jack,” Will mutters. “He called me away before I could eat lunch, and when I got home… Well, there were other matters to take care of.”

“Indeed,” Hannibal sighs, looking towards Will’s tired face. “Will you tell me what happened?”

Will makes eye contact for a millisecond before diverting his eyes, first to the food, then to his dogs, and then to the blood stained carpet void of a body. The other man had helped him immensely, and he feels as if he owes it to Hannibal to let him know the circumstances.

“I used to be a homicide detective,” he says as Hannibal begins to plate the food. “Eventually I got sick of it and decided to teach at Quantico.”

“Why do you think that was?” Hannibal asks him, nodding to a pitcher of juice and moving to Will’s small kitchen table.

Will dutifully picks up the jug and grabs two glasses before joining Hannibal at the table. “I’m not sure,” he answers truthfully. “It got harder to walk away from. I was spending each day in the company of corpses and other men who weren’t much better.”

Hannibal slides a plate to his side, knife and fork placed neatly atop the dish, and takes a bite of his own meal before asking, “Did you feel you were becoming one?”

“I sometimes felt like I was losing myself,” Will says, bringing a forkful of meat to his mouth and chewing slowly. “I sometimes still feel like that. But I also felt curious.”

“Curious?”

“When one spends so much time in the company of killers and corpses, one starts to become curious, Doctor Lecter.”

“You wondered what it would be like to kill?”

“Yes,” he admits, sighing as he pours himself a glass of juice. He sees no point in trying to deny it now, not after last night. “It got harder to stop thinking about. I wasn’t able to distinguish my thoughts from those of the killers, and although most incidents weren’t as…horrific as the ones I deal with these days, they were still bad.”

Will watches Hannibal’s face for a change in emotion – surprise, shock, disgust – but the other man remains indifferent, no easily readable reaction presenting itself on Hannibal’s face.

“Do you still find yourself curious about what it would be like to kill someone, Will?”

Will stops moving, fork halfway to his mouth, as he blinks dumbly at Hannibal. “I don’t need to be,” he says slowly. “I’ve done it, twice now.”

“Circumstances, Will,” Hannibal murmurs, sipping on his juice. “The two times you have killed have been in situations where you have needed to defend either yourself or someone else.”

“So?”

“So the feelings you experienced would be different to those of the emotions you feel from psychopathic killers. It is likely that the curiosity that you felt, or perhaps still feel, is in regards to how it would feel to murder somebody in cold blood.”

“I…” Will swallows audibly, unsure of what to say. He looks at the doctor before turning his gaze back to his half empty plate.

“Either way,” Hannibal murmurs, staring at him intently. “None of this answers my original question. What happened last night?”

Will takes another bite of food before nodding, glad for the slight change in conversation. “That’s what I meant to get at,” he says. “Ten or so years ago, before I was an official homicide detective, I worked a case of an attempted murder. There’d been a domestic dispute, and the suspect had tried to kill his girlfriend. He beat her around and strangled her. She was lucky to survive.”

“This suspect was the man lying on your living room floor?”

“My testimony was the definitive factor that put him away in a high security prison,” Will tells him. “He used to be a real pretty boy, blond hair and blue eyes and all the rest of it. I hadn’t thought about it at the time, but judging from what he said last night, I think he was…taken advantage of while incarcerated.”

Hannibal nods, a look of distaste on his face as he finishes his meal. “He blamed you, then?”

“Mm,” Will hums, swallowing his last bite. “Tracked me down and tried to kill me.”

Hannibal takes another drink of his glass of juice and stays quiet for a long moment, his eyes wondering to the bloody carpet briefly before returning to Will’s face.

Eventually, he says, “While there is ample evidence for a successful self defence argument, let’s make this our little secret, hm?”

Will huffs a laugh and leans back in his chair, arms folding against his torso once more. “You don’t tell anyone I lodged a crowbar in someone’s neck, and I don’t tell anyone you have homemade concoctions that remove blood from carpet? Or that you know how to dispose of a body with ease?”

Hannibal arches a brow at him, “What makes you think I can do it with ease?”

Will smiles, but there’s no warmth to it. “Are you denying it, Doctor Lecter?”

Maroon eyes lock with blue, and Hannibal assesses him carefully, calculating his response. He’s silent for a long time before finally murmuring, “No, I’m not.”

Will understands the threat in the words, can see the simmering danger Hannibal conveys through his eyes. Yet, rather than feeling scared or disgusted or any other appropriate emotion, he feels excited, curious. Small butterflies erupt in his stomach at all the possible meanings Hannibal’s statement could have, and he feels his smile widen, feels creases form around his eyes.

“A dirty little secret between good friends,” he says softly, feeling as if he’s made a deal with the Devil himself.

Hannibal nods once, lips turned upwards into a barely there smile, and stands. “Go shower so I can check over your wounds, my dear Will.”

*

Will hadn’t thought his injuries would be overly noticeable, but as he follows Jack onto the scene of a crime, he walks with an obvious limp and grimace on his face.

“Female victim, looks young,” Jack’s telling him. “They say it happened last night.”

“Do we know anything else?”

Stopping in front of the apartment door, Jack puts a hand on Will shoulder. “I need you to prepare yourself, Will.”

Will suppresses the urge to roll his eyes and moves to open the door, stepping through to see the blood bath the high end apartment had turned into. Remnants of blood painted previously white walls and expensive furniture in long, crimson stripes, and a vision of his own home flashes before Will’s eyes.

He sighs, eyes trailing over yellow squares that indicate evidence and turns back to jack, “Where’s the body?”

“This way,” the other man replies, walking towards another open door.

Will limps after him, eyes widening as he ends up in a vast bathroom. What was once a pristine white basin is covered is crimson, a dismembered body lying on its porcelain bottom, purple tinged water filling the tub shallowly. He swallows dryly before moving towards the basin, a sick feeling coiling in his stomach with each step.

Brian looks up towards him, passing him a pair of surgical gloves before sighing, “No signs of sexual assault, but whoever did this ripped each limb from her body. Considering the wounds, I’d say it was with an axe.”

“She was stripped before she was cut up and put in the tub. Judging by the clothes we found on the floor, she was out partying last night,” Beverly says.

“Where’s her head?” Will asks, bending over the bath.

“There’s no trace of it,” Beverly tells him, sighing.

“We think he took it with him,” Jimmy adds.

Brian shakes his head, as if trying to get rid of the thought, and mutters, “That’s one sick trophy.”

“Are we sure it’s a he?” Will asks, looking back towards Jack.

“Definitely a he,” Jack says. “One neighbour heard a man yelling, and another saw one leave.”

Will nods and takes another step towards the bath, grimacing as the edge makes contact with his wounded thigh.

“You alright?” Jimmy asks, brow raised. “You’re limping pretty bad.”

“I’m fine,” says Will. “Just my dogs.”

Jimmy looks like he’s going to ask another question, but it’s cut off by Jack’s brisk, “What do you think, Will?”

Will takes another look at what’s left of the body and turns to look through bathroom door, closing his eyes as a pendulum swings. When he reopens them, the only people in the room are him and the body. He blinks slowly before walking back to the main room of the apartment, eyes examining blood spurts and ruined furniture.

_I watch her for most of the night. She’s pretty, wealthy. There are men constantly going up to her, but she ignores them all. She ignores me, **especially** me. _

_I wait, patiently, for her to leave. I follow her home, and in her drunken, defenceless state, she doesn’t notice me. Not until I’m right behind her, hand covering her mouth as I push into the apartment._

_Finally, her attention is on me._

_I tell her to stay quiet, but she tries to scream. Anger. I’m angry. I tell her to calm down, but she won’t listen. I pick up the axe I brought with me, and wack her in the back of the head with the blunt side. She drops to the floor, but she still tries to scream. I wack her again, and again, and again. The blood spurts from her body, covering the walls and furniture, covering my clothes and my face._

_Only once she is dead do I move her, drag her from the carpeted floor to the tiled bathroom. I try to lift her into the bath, but her dead weight is too much to carry at once. I carve her, cut her, like the piece of meat I view her to be._

_I fill the basin with water and lavender scented soap before placing her limbs and torso in the bath. I keep her head as my token, so I will never forget the way she looked when she was **finally** paying attention to me._

_This is my design._

Will emerges from the scenario with a gasp, his hand reaching out to steady himself.

“What is it?” Jack asks

“Male. Mid to late thirties. Average or ugly looking,” he tells Jack. “Middle or working class. Easily overlooked. Lonely. He hates women, or he envies them. Particularly the pretty and wealthy ones.”

“Some guy is doing this because he can’t get laid?” Brian calls out, brow furrowed.

“Not exactly,” Will murmurs. “He craves the attention more than the actual act of sex. You said yourself there were no signs of rape.”

“Could’ve killed her before he had the chance,” Beverly points out. “We can add ‘doesn’t enjoy necrophilia’ to his profile.”

Will nods thoughtfully, “Putting her in the bath could have been a sign of remorse, or, depending on his mental state, affection.”

“Some way to show affection,” Jimmy mumbles. “Honey, I love you so much I’m going to kill you and put your limbs in a bath.”

Will ignores him and turns to Jack again, “He stalks them. I’d say this wasn’t his first time.”

Jack nods once, “I’ll see if there’s a pattern.”

*

“Have your colleagues noticed anything different?” Hannibal asks him a week later, having just redressed Will’s injuries.

“Jimmy noticed the limp,” Will tells him, leaning against Hannibal’s desk while the other man pours two glasses of wine.

“And Jack?”

Will chuckles humourlessly, “Jack doesn’t care if I’m walking funny. Not if my mind still works to suit his needs.”

Hannibal hums his agreement and hands him a glass, moving to stand in front of him, “And how is your mind?”

Will sips the alcohol and shrugs lightly, “I’m glad this case is over.”

“How did they find him?”

“One of the neighbours made a positive ID,” Will mumbles. “It was enough to search his apartment, and they found the head in the fridge.”

“Peculiar trophy, isn’t it?  I can’t imagine why one would want to keep the head of their victim.”

“He wanted to remember the look on her face,” Will tells him, sighing. “I’ve seen odder things.”

“The nature of the crime isn’t what’s bothering you, then,” Hannibal states, taking another sip.

“Not exactly,” Will admits. “I don’t usually work sexually motivated crimes.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t want to get inside the head of a violent rapist.”

“You think you won’t be able to shake the feeling? That, if you were to become too involved, you will act on those particular urges?”

“I think, if I were to become too involved, there would be a possibility of me losing control, yes,” says Will. “I’m already a killer, I’d rather not be a rapist, too.”

Hannibal gives him a calculating look, head tilting to the side slightly. “Did you feel this way about getting inside the heads of murderers?”

“No. I hadn’t thought it would affect me like this when I started.”

“Like how?”

“The thoughts…cravings, really. The emotions I feel even when I’m far away from a crime scene.”

 Hannibal stays silent for a long moment, contemplating the information while he stares into the deep red of his wine.

“How did it feel when you beat Michael Spencer with a crow bar?”

Closing his eyes, Will thinks back to the incident. Hannibal hadn’t been lying when he said he’d handle the carpet, and now the only remaining evidence that anything happened at all were the two cuts on his leg, and the almost healed scratch on Buster.

_You remember seeing the body sprawled on the floor, defenceless as you brought the bar down once, twice, so many times you lost count. You remember the anger you’d felt beforehand, the unidentifiable feeling bubbling inside of you, almost to the point of exploding. You remember how it vanished with each hit, how each drop of blood made your chest swell with a sense of clarity you hadn’t felt since Hobbs’ lifeless body fell before you._

_You remember smiling, manically, as you complied with the Ripper’s whisper._

“Cathartic.”

“Doing bad things to bad people makes us feel good.”

Will shakes his head, “That’s not why.”

“Why, then?”

Will opens his mouth to answer, but his words die as the chime of his phone goes off. He sighs, reaching a hand into his pocket and pulling it out. The name _Jack Crawford_ is displayed on the screen, and he looks at Hannibal apologetically.

“I have to take this,” he says, putting the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

 _“Will. Good,”_ comes Jack’s voice, loud enough in the otherwise quiet room for Hannibal to hear. _“You’re not going to believe what’s happened.”_

“What is it?”

_“I just got a call from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. An inmate has attacked and killed a nurse.”_

“And you want me to come take a look.”

_“You’re going to want to look, Will. Dr. Frederick Chilton claims it was the work of the Chesapeake Ripper.”_

Will stills, eyes looking towards Hannibal’s in surprise, “The Ripper?”

_“The removal of organs and abdominal mutilations are, apparently, all consistent with the previous works of the Ripper. I’m on my way there now. Can you come?”_

Will nods, knowing he can’t be seen. “I’m with Doctor Lecter, do you mind if he tags along?”

 _“Another insight couldn’t hurt,”_ Jack says through the phone. “ _I’ll see you soon.”_

“Yeah,” Will mumbles, hanging up before turning to Hannibal. “Did you hear that?”

“Indeed I did,” the other man replies, a faint look of surprise gracing his features. “Rather surprising.”

Will’s lips tilt upwards briefly, and he puts his half drunken glass of wine on Hannibal’s desk. “You don’t mind coming with me?”

“On the contrary,” Hannibal murmurs, placing his own glass down before moving to get their coats. “I would be offended if I weren’t invited.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know not all countries have them, so the Penthrox inhaler that Hannibal gives Will in this chapter is an Australian invention that's used by emergency services to reduce pain. Basically it's just this whistle like thing you inhale that uses methoxyflurane as a non-addictive and non-narcotic pain reliever. I used it here because I didn't know what else to use, and semi-high Will adds a little comic relief.


	4. Chapter 4

_hurt me_

_there's two of us_

_bristling with desire_

_the pleasure's pain and fire_

_burn me_

_*_

 

Jack wastes no time when they arrive at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, ushering both Will and Hannibal to Dr. Chilton’s office before being shown the crime scene.

Hannibal stands just in front of the door, watching intently as Will steps forward and surveys the scene. Seeing the nurses’ cooling body, he admits to himself that Able Gideon did a rather good job at recreating what the public knew to be the Ripper’s last victim.

Far too good a job, really. As far as he can remember, wound patterns had never been released.

“Were there any other signs Dr. Gideon was the Chesapeake Ripper before now, Frederick?” he asks quietly, eyes drifting away from Will to look at Dr. Chilton.

“He fits the profile,” the other man replies, gaze trained on Will as the profiler bends to examine the body. “When did they get you involved on the hunt for the Ripper?”

Hannibal’s lips turn upward ever so slightly, “They didn’t.”

“Then why are you here, Dr. Lecter?”

“For Will’s sake.”

Chilton’s head snaps towards Hannibal, and the man cocks a perfectly trimmed eyebrow. “ _You_ are Will Graham’s psychiatrist?”

“Of sorts.”

“Of sorts?” Chilton repeats, head tilting slightly. “For how long, Hannibal?”

“A few months.”

“And you hadn’t thought to let me know?”

“Frederick,” Hannibal chastises, smirking. “You know that’s unethical.”

“Screw ethics,” Chilton murmurs, leaning in closer to the other doctor. “You have to know Graham’s a hot topic in psychiatric circles.”

“I am well aware of what is said about dear Will,” Hannibal tells him. “I have no wish to add fuel to the fire, as the saying goes.”

“Why not? If I were in your position, I’d be exploiting the opportunity any way I could.”

“Which,” Hannibal says slowly, eyes moving back in the direction of Will, “Is exactly why we’re lucky you are not in my position, Frederick. There are enough people in Will’s mind as is, he does not need you writing journals about him.”

Chilton huffs a laugh, arms folding over each other as he leans against the wall. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you cared about him, Hannibal.”

Hannibal opens his mouth to reply, but closes it again when Will gasps loudly, his breath coming in erratic, unsteady puffs as he emerges from whatever thoughts had been clouding his head.

“As far as we know, it’s been two years since the Chesapeake Ripper killed?” Will asks, still not turning away from the mutilated body.

“That’s correct,” Jack replies.

“When was Gideon admitted?”

“Almost two years ago.”

 Will nods slowly before finally turning and looking towards Chilton, “Can I speak with him?”

“Not now,” the doctor replies. “But if you could come back tomorrow—“

“Yes,” Will interrupts impatiently.

“What do you think, Will?”

“It…looks like the Chesapeake Ripper. I’ll need to speak with Gideon before I can give a proper profile. Sorry.”

“Very well. I’ll call you tomorrow and we can discuss it.”

Will offers a tight lipped smile before asking, “Can I leave now?”

Jack nods once and Will moves immediately towards the door. Hannibal steps forward and reaches an arm out, the palm of his hand moving to rest gently between Will’s shoulder blades.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, Frederick,” he murmurs before nodding his farewell to Jack and leading Will away from the room.

Lost in his own thoughts, Will is only vaguely aware of Hannibal’s touch directing him from the building and to the doctor’s parked car.

He definitely doesn’t notice the pair of eyes following them.

*

Hannibal opens the passenger door for him when they reach the black Bentley, remaining silent until he himself is in the car. Starting the engine, he turns towards the other man, “Are you alright, Will?”

Rather than replying verbally, Will offers a jerky nod before closing his eyes and leaning against the leather car seat, his leg bouncing anxiously.

“Perhaps it would be wise if you were to stay with me tonight.”

“I need to think.”

“I won’t stop you.”

“No—I…I’ll be stuck in my head. Not very good company.”

Hannibal allows himself to smile fondly, “You don’t need to be good company, Will. I’d much rather you think in my guest room, where I’ll be able to help if I need to, than all the way back in Wolf Trap.”

“I…yeah, okay.”

“Good,” says the doctor, finally pulling away from the hospital.

*

True to his word, Hannibal leaves Will to his own devices, only interrupting him once dinner is ready. The meal is a rather casual affair, in comparison to what dinner with Hannibal is usually like. The dish has a name Will can pronounce, and Hannibal sits across from him, suit jacket and vest discarded as he takes measured bites of food and carries the conversation.

“Are you feeling any better, dear Will?”

Will hums, swallowing a gulp of wine. “I’m thinking clearer now.”

“And what is it you’re thinking?”

Will sighs, “I’m not completely convinced that Gideon’s the Ripper.”

“No? The notion seems plausible.”

“I know, and he could be,” Will tells him. “It definitely looks like the Ripper’s work, but I need to talk to him before I make up my mind either way.”

“Are you having your usual trouble with understanding the Ripper?”

“Not really,” Will admits. “I mean, this killing isn’t exactly…hard to understand. It’s part of the reason I don’t think Dr. Gideon’s the Ripper. It’s just—I… it feels different. Something’s different. I don’t feel how I usually do.”

“How do you usually feel?”

Will pauses, contemplating. “It’s going to sound weird.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Sighing, Will says, “I feel connected, almost. I may not always understand him, or see him as clearly as I wish to, but I can _feel_ the Ripper.”

Hannibal leans back in his chair, wine glass held up to his lips, as he murmurs, “That must be unnerving.”

“I’m not afraid of the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal. I _like_ being able to feel him, it just frustrates me that he’s hard to understand.”

Indulging in a smile, Hannibal asks, “Have you always been drawn to a challenge, Will?”

Will laughs, shrugging briefly before swallowing his bite of food, “If I deem the challenge worthy.”

“And you believe the Ripper to be worthy?”

“I want to understand.”

Hannibal’s smile widens, “I want you to understand, as well.”

*

Despite Will’s protests, Hannibal lends him a pair of expensive, cotton pyjamas to sleep in. They’re navy blue with white threading, and he takes them from Hannibal’s hands with a resigned sigh. He doesn’t want to let Hannibal know what he usually sleeps in, so he puts on the oversized clothes and wears them to bed. They’re warm and soft against his skin, a small blessing in the freezing cold night.

Hannibal smiles when he emerges from the bathroom, his gaze appreciative as he lets Will know he’ll be just down the hall if anything comes up. Will nods and mumbles a thanks, collapsing down onto the guest bed as soon as Hannibal closes the door behind him.

Even if something does come up, Will’s pretty sure he won’t go to Hannibal for help. His nightmares have been affecting him oddly lately, and he has no intention of embarrassing himself in front of the other man.

Pulling the thick duvet around him, he allows himself to wish he was curled up with his dogs, their calm breathing lulling him into sleep. The thought makes him feel stupid, though, juvenile, and he sighs, burrowing his face into the oversized sleeve of the nightshirt, the unmistakable scent of Hannibal filling his senses as he drifts into sleep.

*

_Images of gushing blood and shimmering shadows play behind your eyes, flashes of light and remnants of screams and moans accompanying them._

_You feel…disorientated. Foreign. You don’t know where you are, or what you’re doing, or who you’re with, or if you’re with anyone at all. The screams don’t have a recognisable voice, the shadows have no faces, and the blood seems to be gushing out of no one, out of nothing._

_There’s something else, though. An all-consuming emotion. Making its way through your body, through your mind and your stomach, until it’s overwhelming you._

_It isn’t unpleasant, but you wouldn’t call it pleasurable, either. It’s just **there** , like a little voice in the back of your head. A bit like a guilty desire, or an unpleasant arousal. _

_You think, perhaps, your own screams and moans are matching those of the nameless voices and faceless shadows. You’re not exactly sure if they’re from fear, or something else entirely._

_You don’t feel scared._

_None of it makes sense, and you’re too incoherent to even try to understand. It’s easier to just give in to whatever it is, so you do. Twisting and turning and rutting and screaming as everything consumes you, as you let it consume you, alighting each and every one of your nerves on fire until—_

The sound of his own scream draws Will from sleep, his sweat soaked body trembling as he comes down from his orgasm. The scream on his lips fades until he’s left panting, chest rising and falling heavily as he tries to make sense of things.

Disorientated from sleep and arousal, it takes him a moment to sense the presence on the other end of the room, standing just inside the door way. Will curses his body, face flushing as he fights to urge to pull the bed covers over his head and hide from Hannibal until it all goes away.

He figures it’s best to get it over with, though, so, turning in the direction of the other man, he asks, “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” Hannibal murmurs, finally moving towards the bed. “I was unsure if it was safe to touch you or not.”

Will watches as Hannibal sits on the edge of the guest bed, close to Will’s trembling form, but still not touching. He looks entirely too put together, Will thinks, especially at whatever ridiculous hour it is.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

Will can’t bring himself to meet Hannibal’s eyes, afraid of what he might find there.

“For waking you up,” he whispers, voice hoarse from screaming. “And…and for ruining your pyjamas, probably.”

Hannibal waves a hand dismissively, lips tilting into a smile.

“Nothing a good dry clean can’t fix. As for waking me up, you needn’t worry. I thought you were having a nightmare,” Hannibal tells him. “Evidently I was wrong.”

Will shakes his head, sheets rustling underneath his curls, “It was a nightmare… At least, I think it was.”

“What do you mean?”

“I…there was blood…and shadows, and people were screaming, and I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why I react like this. They’re not—I’m not—”

“Will,” Hannibal cuts him off, an authoritative tone in his voice that makes Will shut his mouth quickly, the flush returning to his cheeks. “Our bodies often react in ways that seem odd to us. There is nothing wrong with you. Do you understand me?”

Will nods, though he doesn’t agree, not really.

“Use your words, Will.”

“Yes.”

Hannibal nods once, pleased, and gently swipes his palm over Will’s sweaty forehead, his long fingers combing through the messy curls. His smile widens as the other man sights happily at the touch, Will’s body still oversensitive after the draining dream.

“Perhaps another shower is in order?”

“Okay,” Will agrees, allowing Hannibal to help him up from the bed and back to the guest bathroom.

*

When Will emerges from his second shower, Hannibal has laid out another set of clothes – this time a simple white t-shirt with plain, black pants – alongside a glass of water and a sleeping pill. He dresses quickly, downing the pill and the glass of water straight after. He intends to go back to sleep in the guest bed, despite the fact that his sweat had soaked through the pyjamas and onto the bedding.

However, Hannibal appears at the door just as he’s pulling the cover back, a frown on his face.

“Will?”

“Mm?”

“What are you doing?”

Will looks towards him, slightly confused. “Going back to bed?”

“Not in there you’re not. It’s drenched.”

“I really don’t care, Hannibal. I do it all the time.”

“I care,” Hannibal tells him, matter-of-factly. “You can sleep in my bed with me. We’ve only got another three hours before we should wake up.”

Will stares at him, surprised at the offer. He hadn’t been expecting _that_.

“Or,” Hannibal says slowly, once Will’s taken too long to reply. “You could sleep on the couch. There’s another guest room, but unfortunately it’s not currently suitable to be slept in.”

“No, no, I, um,” Will stumbles, feeling suddenly awkward. “I don’t mind sharing.”

Hannibal smiles, and Will sees his eyes shining in the light that streams through from the hallway.

*

The next time Will wakes up, there’s a muscular arm wrapped firmly around his torso, a solid body pressed against his back. He lets out a content sigh, smiling as his body, muddled with sleep, burrows into the warmth offered. He can feel warm puffs of air ghosting over the back of his neck, and the steady rhythm almost lulls him back into slumber.

“We should get ready for the day,” Hannibal murmurs, the movement making his lips brush against Will’s skin.

Tensing, Will’s eyes snap open, suddenly overly aware of the situation and how they got there. He moves to sit up and Hannibal sighs, removing his arm before rolling onto his back.

“Umm…”

“Yes?”

“I…”

“How about you get ready while I make us a quick breakfast, hmm? We’ll leave for Frederick’s after that.”

Will nods slowly, palm rubbing at his face.

“Okay.”

*

“How much do you know of Will Graham?”

“Enough,” Hannibal responds, moving to look at the books resting behind Frederick’s desk.

“You’re really not going to share?” Chilton asks, cocking an eyebrow from where he sits, lounging on one of his office couches. “Come on, Dr. Lecter. It’s unlike you to keep your thoughts quiet about this sort of thing.”

Hannibal sighs, plucking a leather-bound book from the case and flipping it open to a random page.

“I’ve already told you, Frederick. Will was rather reluctant to trust me with his mind’s inner workings. I have no intention of ruining that now.”

“Always the gentlemen,” Chilton mutters, rolling his eyes and standing. “What is it you’re reading?”

“Your staff records,” Hannibal replies, eyes trailing over addresses and phone numbers of employee after employee, his mind soaking the information like a sponge in case it ever became useful.

“Rather boring.”

Hannibal hums, either in agreement or disagreement, and says, “Isn’t it dangerous to keep this information in a book? Should it not be digitalised, where, if someone were to escape, it would be harder to access?”

“It is digitalised. I merely keep the book for aesthetics,” Dr. Chilton tells him, sitting at his desk. “And no one would be able to escape, Hannibal. The security here is unbelievable.”

“If you say so,” Hannibal murmurs, eyes trailing over the address of a _Brown, Matthew_ before finally shutting and replacing the book.

“Tell me more about Mr. Graham’s thoughts on the attack,” Frederick says, indicating for Hannibal to take the seat across from him. “Surely you’re willing to discuss that?”

Hannibal takes the seat, folding one leg over the other and leaning against the wooden back. “Will has mentioned doubts.”

“Doubts?”

“Mm,” Hannibal hums, tilting his head slightly. “He is not entirely sure Gideon’s attack is that of the Ripper.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not exactly sure why. That’s the reason he wished to speak with Dr. Gideon,” Hannibal tells him.

“You saw the crime scene, Hannibal. Of course Gideon’s the Ripper.”

Hannibal’s shoulders lift in a light shrug, “Is there any way you could have planted the idea, Frederick? Lead Dr. Gideon to believe he was the Chesapeake Ripper, simply because that is what you yourself believed?”

Chilton mouth parts slightly in surprise, his brow furrowing as he addresses the other psychiatrist, “Are you accusing me of unorthodox psychiatry, Dr. Lecter?”

“Merely asking,” Hannibal replies, lips lifting in a barely there smile. “No need to fret about it. I myself have been known to indulge in the unethical, when the situation calls for it.”

Chilton sighed, “We discussed the Ripper’s work in our sessions together.”

“Did you allow Gideon to see classified information?”

“I would not go that far, Hannibal,” Frederick answers, yet Hannibal thinks he detects a lie.

*

When Will emerges from his chat with Able Gideon, Hannibal is waiting for him. Despite the awkwardness of their night, he’s glad to see the doctor. There are a million thoughts running through his head, ones he wouldn’t want to share with Jack or Alana, and definitely not Chilton. Not at that moment, anyway.

“How was it?” Hannibal asks, voice quiet in the empty hallway.

Will waits until he’s right in front of the other man before answering, “Interesting.”

“Still having doubts?”

Will sighs, a hand running across his stubbled cheek.

“I’ll admit the scene looks like the work of the Ripper. The wound patterns, the scenario, Gideon’s surgical history. It’s easy to understand why they’d think he was the Ripper.”

“But…” Hannibal prompts, eyes trained on Will.

“I see the Ripper,” Will tells him, blue eyes staring into maroon. “But I don’t feel the Ripper.”

Hannibal watches as Will moves to lean against the wall, hands reaching under his glasses to rub at his eyes, irritated.

“Are you alright?”

Will shrugs, “I think so.”

“Why don’t you feel the Chesapeake Ripper, Will?”

“I…he…I just don’t. There’s _something_ about it that doesn’t…fit,” he answers, pausing for a moment before whispering, “I could feel the Ripper in my head, with Spencer. Really _feel_ him. Like…like he was a part of me, lingering in the back of my head. I don’t feel like that now.”

“Perhaps the Chesapeake Ripper—”

“ _Ugh,_ ” a voice calls from the end of the hall. “Not you two as well.”

Both men turn in the direction of the voice, Hannibal cocking an eyebrow at the young man who walks towards them, dressed in an orderly’s outfit.

“Excuse me?”

“All this talk of the Ripper,” the man responds, sighing. “I don’t understand the hysteria. He’s hardly the greatest serial killer.”

Will turns towards Hannibal, watching carefully as the man’s eyes darken and his lips purse.

“Oh?”

“If you ask me,” the man says, eyes trailing over to Will. “The hype around the Chesapeake Ripper emerged more from the FBI’s inability to catch him, rather than any particular skill.”

“Then it’s a good thing we didn’t ask,” Hannibal replies, his voice perfectly polite as his hands fold together to rest in front of him. “It’s impolite to entre conversations uninvited.”

Will suppresses a smile at Hannibal’s words before turning his gaze to the orderly.

“You really don’t think the Ripper has skill?”

“His murders are pretty – but there are better serial killers to waste your time on,” the man replies, shrugging. His eyes flick towards Hannibal before returning to Will, a small smile tugging at his lips as he continues, “Just as there are better people to spend your time with.”

Will makes an odd, half laugh, half almost-choking sound in the back of his throat and stares at the man in front of him, eyes wide. He thinks maybe, perhaps, he might be hallucinating, because, well, _really_?

“Ah, what?” he asks dumbly, eyes flicking towards Hannibal.

Hannibal isn’t looking at him; rather, his eyes are trained solely on the man in front of them. Will wishes he could see what they look like – see if there’s any emotion there or if his expression is as perfectly resigned as it usually is.

“How very rude,” Hannibal murmurs, and although his voice has an almost dangerous quality to it, Will can see his lips tilt into a small smile. “And who may you be?”

“Matthew Brown,” the orderly replies, and Hannibal’s smile widens.

“Thank you for your input, Mr. Brown,” Hannibal says, placing a hand on Will’s shoulder. “But my companion and I really must get going. I suspect we’ll be seeing you later.”

Matthew waves at them as he watches them leave, winking at Will when the man turns around to look back at him before following Hannibal from the building.

*

 

They’re barely out the doors of the BSHFTCI when another voice calls out to them. Will recognises it immediately and rolls his eyes as Hannibal stops and turns to look at the flame haired woman walking towards them.

“Called in again, Graham?”

“Wasting my time again, Freddie?”

“You should help me out. I could help you clear your name, you know.”

Will refrains from rolling his eyes again, “How very generous of you. Are we forgetting the fact that the only reason my name _isn’t_ clear, is because of your articles?”

Freddie smiles, “Minor details.”

“No.”

“I could delete them all.”

Will lets out an exasperated sigh, “What do you want?”

“The inside scoop,” Freddie tells him. “I want to know what the FBI’s favourite little toy thinks of the Ripper’s latest crime.”

“No,” Will repeats, turning to leave.

“It would work in your favour.”

“You’ve already told people I killed someone, what else could you do?”

“That murder was somewhat justifiable, my readers know that. There are other damaging facts to spill,” Freddie says, smirking to herself when Will turns back around to look at her, confused.

“Like what?”

“FBI pet Will Graham, forced to see psychiatrist for reasons unconfirmed. Some sources claim it’s because he’s unstable, others say it’s to repress his urges to kill again.”

“ _What?_ ” Will asks, moving closer to Freddie, Hannibal following suit.

“Miss Lounds,” Hannibal murmurs, drawing attention to himself for the first time during their encounter. “Is it not horribly unethical to blackmail information from people, especially when the blackmail material is false? Do you care nothing for the truth?”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Will mutters.

“Of course I want my readers to know the truth,” Freddie says, ignoring Will and looking towards Hannibal. “They deserve to know when the person allegedly keeping them safe is as dangerous as the killers he tries to catch.”

Will chuckles humourlessly, “It's not very smart to piss off a guy who thinks about killing people for a living, Freddie.”

Freddie’s face breaks out into a grin, and Hannibal sighs, placing his hand back on Will’s shoulder.

“Perhaps we should leave.”

“Why?” Freddie asks. “Scared he’ll say something else that could ruin his career?”

“I have better things to do,” Hannibal tells her, gently pushing Will in the opposite direction. “Good day, Miss Lounds.”

*

“Do me a favour,” Will says once they’re both back in the car.

“Mm?”

“Run her over on our way out.”

A laugh escapes Hannibal’s mouth in a puff of air, and he shakes his head, “I’m afraid we’d easily be caught.”

“I’ll take the blame.”

“Will,” Hannibal reprimands, still smiling.

“She annoys me,” Will says, crossing his arms. “She gets off on ruining people’s lives.”

“Be that as it may, what you said could be interpreted as a threat,” Hannibal tells him quietly. “You might want to be more careful.”

“I’m sure I’ll hear all about it from Jack when she inevitably publishes it,” Will sighs, repressing the urge to bury his face in his hands and scream. “I just want to go home. I need to feed my dogs, they’ve been alone for too long.”

“Very well, I’ll take you to your car.”

*

The only contact Hannibal receives from Will over the next few days is a rushed text letting him know he’s being overworked, and that he’s sorry but he probably won’t be able to make their next appointment.  

That’s why, when he opens his office door with the intention of leaving for the night, he’s surprised to see Will there, pacing anxiously with a hand tugging at his curls.

“Will?” Hannibal asks slowly, and Will’s face snaps towards him. “Do you want to come in?”

Will doesn’t respond, instead he just pushes past Hannibal and into the now familiar office. Hannibal watches on, eyebrow cocked, as Will moves to sit in his usual chair. He shuts and locks the door quietly, removing his coat once more, and moves to join him.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Jack’s annoyed at me. He read the article.”

“I know,” Hannibal tells him. “He called. Said I should have known better than to let you say it.”

Will snorts, “I don’t need someone censoring what I say.”

“I know that. I trust you to speak for yourself.”

“I meant it, you know,” Will admits, face tilted towards the roof. “She’s going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person one day. And she’ll get what’s coming.”

“I’d say so,” Hannibal agrees, and the room quiets. Hannibal waits for Will to speak, but when the silence stretches for a moment too long, he prompts “Will, why are you here?”

Will sighs, long and loud, and he head drops forward again, his eyes locking with Hannibal’s.

“Serial killers like keeping trophies.”

“They do.”

“The Ripper likes taking organs. A sign of his medical history.”

“He does.”

“Gideon had no organs stored in his house when they caught him for the murder of his wife. He didn’t take any from the nurse.”

“Facts that contribute to your theory that Dr. Gideon is not the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“Of course, Gideon may have later disposed of the organs.”

“Or he could have stored them elsewhere.”

Will smiles, head tilting to the side, before saying, “Or he could have eaten them.”

Hannibal’s face does not change; he remains as perfectly composed as he had been before, sitting with his back straight and one leg crossed over the other.

“Also a possible theory,” he murmurs.

“I went back to the hospital and spoke with Gideon again. Jack made me,” Will tells him. “Matthew Brown was working, he walked me to his cell.”

“How was it?”

“Interesting,” Will says, scratching at his neck. “Matthew went on again, about how the Ripper was…subpar. Gideon heard all of it. I thought he would react badly, you know how serial killers tend to take pride in their work. Someone like the Ripper would have definitely reacted badly. He goes to all that trouble to create beautiful art out of his victims, and then someone tries to tell him he’s inadequate? He would have at least been defensive.”

“How did Dr. Gideon react, Will?”

“He shrugged it off.”

“And, in your mind, that is the conclusive factor in deciding whether or not he is the Ripper.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“The Ripper would not dismiss Matthew Brown’s comments so quickly. It’s probable he’d want to hurt him. To turn him into a masterpiece in the hopes that Matthew would grow to understand what makes him such a unique killer. The Chesapeake Ripper likes to put on a show because he wants to be seen, but he wants his work to be seen as beautiful, not _subpar_.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“I haven’t really slept much since we last spoke.”

Hannibal nods once, fingers linking across his knee as he asks, “What have you concluded?”

Will sighs again, pausing for a moment before finally saying, “You have a surgical history, don’t you, _Doctor_ Lecter?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You were awfully offended by Matthew Brown’s comments. It was obvious.”

“I was. He was incredibly rude, Will.”

Will grins, small dimples indenting his cheeks as he looks at Hannibal, mild disbelief colouring his features.

“You’re the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“Remarkable, dear Will,” Hannibal whispers, a faint smile on his face. “You figured it out very quickly.”

“If I were to try and leave right now, to tell Jack Crawford and the FBI of my conclusion, you would kill me before I reached the door, wouldn’t you?”

“I would.”

Hannibal’s voice is strong when he says it, matter of fact. There’s no room for a debate there, Will knows he’ll die if he tries to move. It makes his smile widen.

“Then it’s a good thing I have no intention of leaving.”

“Why not?” Hannibal questions. “Any sane person would.”

“I want to understand you, Hannibal,” Will says quietly. “To see you, and feel you, and understand you, all at the same time. That’s what you want as well, isn’t it? You know I’ll appreciate the beauty.”

Hannibal’s eyes close briefly, his tongue emerging to swipe at his bottom lip before he swallows audibly.

“Yes.”

“And I’m right, aren’t I? You want to kill Matthew. To turn him into a piece of art, to put him on display.”

“Yes,” Hannibal says again, eyes wide open now, as they stare into Will’s. “And you want to do it with me.”

There really is no point denying it, Will thinks. Not anymore. Hannibal knows him too well by now.

Gaze trailing over Hannibal’s face, the still calm composure of the man, he echoes Hannibal.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The talk Will has with Gideon is just what we saw in the actual show (s01e06), so I decided not to write it. It's occurring during the Frederick/Hannibal office scene.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Wanings: graphic depictions of blood and violence, non explicit homophobia.

_so come on_

_i'll take you on, take you on_

_i ache for love, ache for us_

_why don't you come_

_don't you come a little closer_

_*_

Blood oozes out from Matthew’s stomach, the sticky substance painting what used to be a silver bench crimson.

Will watches on, unblinking, as Hannibal digs the metal rod in deeper, skin ripping open to accompany the object. The older man twists it before pushing downwards, and Will hears the sickening crunch of a bone breaking fill the room.

He hadn’t asked how Hannibal knew where to find Matthew, he hadn’t even been surprised that the other man knew. He was so eager to see Hannibal in this state that he didn’t care.

He’d been worried at first, when they’d arrived at Matthew’s street. The houses were packed closely together, mere metres separating each home from the next, and Will was certain _someone_ would hear them, even at such a late hour. They were incredibly lucky that one of Matthew’s neighbours had decided it was the perfect time to throw a party.

Even inside, watching Hannibal turn the other man into a picturesque victim of the Chesapeake Ripper, he could hear the pumping electronic music. It would have annoyed him, at any other time, but he couldn’t help but be thankful for it as it smothered the screams and hurt whimpers that escaped Matthew’s mouth.

The body was laid across his kitchen bench, a steel little island in the middle of the room. Hannibal had snuck up behind him when they’d first entered the house, injecting him with some kind of fluid that made him placid before hoisting him on top of it. Will had watched, awed, as Hannibal cut the body open, Brown’s eyes wide as he watched his own blood trickle down his torso and onto the tiled floor.

Hannibal had cut right down his middle, ripping his chest open until Will could see the expansion and contraction of Matthew’s lungs. Hannibal brought a cooler with them, and Will had held it open while the doctor ripped the organs from Brown’s body before carefully packing them away.

He’d died before Hannibal had started to _really_ mutilate the body, and Will felt oddly upset that Matthew wouldn’t be able to see the artwork Hannibal would eventually turn him into.

“Would you like to help?” Hannibal’s asks, his voice pulling Will from his trance like state.

He moves his gaze from Matthew to Hannibal, eyes trailing the long strips of dark blood that cover the plastic suit he wears, the odd splatter that covers his face.

“I… _Yes_.”

There are already various objects sticking out from Matthew’s cooling body. Will doesn’t think there’s much room for anything more, but he’d hardly done anything and watching Hannibal have all the fun only heightened his desires.    

Hannibal reaches an arm out, beckoning him to his side. “Enjoying yourself, my dear boy?”

Will nods slowly, torn between getting a closer look of Matthew’s body and looking to see what Hannibal was doing. He opts for the latter, lips twitching into an amused smile when he sees the doctor pull a crowbar from the black duffle bag they’d brought with them. It’s new, the silver of the sharp edge shining in the light, but a crowbar all the same.

“Seriously?”

Hannibal returns the smile, “For old time’s sake.”

 Will snorts then, shaking his head, “It was barely two months ago.”

“All the same,” Hannibal says. “I thought we’d start with familiar territory.”

He moves to stand directly behind Will, their bodies _almost_ pressed against each other. Both arms curl around Will’s waist, with one hand holding the bar and the other motioning for Will to do the same.

“Shall we do it together?”

Will’s chest flutters with warmth at the question and he nods once more, “Like last time?”

“Mm, except this the Chesapeake Ripper _is_ talking to you, and not just in your head.”

Hannibal’s mouth is positioned close to his ear, close enough that Will can feel the warm puffs of breath trail down the back of his neck, making him shiver. He _knows_ the reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by Hannibal, and he’s glad the other man doesn’t mention it.

“Ready?”

Will breaths the word _yes_ , and Hannibal starts to lift the bar. Together, they lodge it through Matthew’s throat, blood sweeping out through the tear and bubbling from his mouth.

*

“I haven’t heard anything,” Will says into the phone the next night. “Nothing from Jack.”

“ _Nothing on TattleCrime either,”_ Hannibal replies. “ _Perhaps Mr. Brown hasn’t been found yet.”_

“He didn’t seem like someone who’d have many friends,” Will mumbles, almost tripping down a step as he follows his dogs into the yard. “How long do you think it’ll be till they do find him?”

“ _Another day or so. Frederick isn’t a fan of tardiness, he’ll want to know why Matthew isn’t showing up to work.”_

“’spose so.”

“ _Will you be alright when Jack does call?”_

“I think so. Just don’t say anything that could incriminate me, right?”

“ _And be extra careful of who’s watching.”_

“I know, I will.”

“ _Good,_ ” Hannibal murmurs, _“Please do let me know when you hear something.”_

“I will,” Will repeats, throwing a ball with his free hand for the dogs to run after. “Are you going to help?”

 _“Perhaps, if I am asked to,_ ” Hannibal says. “ _I like to know what’s going on.”_

A laugh escapes Will’s mouth in a puff, the warmth creating a faint mist in the cool evening air, “Of course you do.”

_“Mm, will I see you soon?”_

“Dinner?” Will suggests, watching the dogs play happily. “Tomorrow, or maybe the day after. I’ve never had lung before.”

Hannibal chuckles, the sound low and smooth even through the phone, and Will smiles to himself.

“ _Remarkable boy. I’ll see what I can do.”_

“I look forward to it.”

_“Until then, Will.”_

Will’s smile widens as he leans down to retrieve the ball from Winston’s mouth, “Goodnight, Dr. Lecter.”

*

_Hannibal’s body presses against yours, his torso solid and warm against the smooth skin of your bare back. His arms are wrapped around your waist, fingers ghosting over your abdomen as lips trail over the skin of your shoulder._

_Looking down, you can see the blood covering his arms, his hands. The pads of his fingers trace patterns against your stomach, the crimson turning your skin into a beautiful work of art._

_You can hear yourself moaning, pathetic whimpers and cries escaping your mouth as Hannibal kisses down your body, as you feel his hands, slippery with blood, stroke your painful erection._

_Your bodies press together, glide together, a mix of blood and sweat making skin stick to skin in the most delicious way possible. It’s magnificent, you think, to **finally**_ _be wrapped around each other like this – bare, in every sense of the word._

_You can feel the pressure rising in your stomach, and you plead with him for faster, and harder, and—_

Will wakes with a gasp, chest rising and falling with harsh breaths as he reaches blindly for his phone, the standard ringtone blaring in the silent room. When he does find it, he checks the time and caller ID – 5:28 AM, Jack Crawford – before answering it and holding it against his ear.

“What?”

“ _Will_ ,” Jack says, voice hard. “ _Sorry to wake you, but the Ripper’s struck again.”_

Forcing an annoyed sigh from his mouth, Will responds, “I thought Chilton had better security.”

“ _It’s not Gideon. You were right.”_

“Then who is it?”

_“We don’t know. I’m at the victim’s house now. He was a nurse at the hospital.”_

“Are you sure it’s not a copycat?”

_“It’s definitely the Ripper’s work. I’ll text you the address.”_

Jack hangs up before he can say anything else, and Will sighs, rubbing at his face before pushing the duvet down and moving to the shower.

He’s still painfully hard when he steps under the warm water, his mind still fuzzy with arousal. He feels guilty for doing so, but, with one last paranoid look towards the bathroom door, Will wraps his right hand around his cock firmly. His head falls forward, forehead resting against cool tile as he lets the remnants of his dream wash over him.

*

The house is a chaotic mess when he arrives.

Brown’s neighbours loiter outside their homes despite the early hour, curious eyes trying to get a glimpse of anything they can. Various men and women sporting thick FBI jackets are already working out the front, gathering any and all evidence they can find to suggest who was there two nights before.

Will knows they won’t find anything.

The building is closed off with bright yellow tape, but Will casually slips under and into the house, the investigation team parting for him wordlessly. Jack meets him at the door, brow furrowed with exhaustion and annoyance, and ushers him into the kitchen. Will follows blindly, stopping in the open doorway to process the scene.

Matthew’s body still lies on top of the bench, the previously flowing blood now dry and clotted against his skin and its surrounding surfaces. The objects he and Hannibal had lodged into his body remain where they were, the stainless steel still glistening under the bright kitchen light.

An odd, pleasant feeling flutters in his stomach, and Will suddenly understands all too clearly why some murderers like returning to the scene of their crimes.

“He’s been dead for a few days,” Beverly tells him, a camera held in her gloved hands. “At least two.”

Brian nods, grimacing as he says, “The body has been inserted with approximately twenty four objects, we can’t tell for sure until we take them out. Most seem to be surgical—”

“But not all,” Jimmy cuts in. “The crowbar – lovingly lodged through the neck, as you can see – is rather peculiar, but not enough to excuse this from being the Ripper’s work.”

“His lungs are missing, ripped right from his body,” Beverly continues. “We won’t know for sure until we get him onto our own table, but it looks like he was still alive during the process.”

Will rubs the knuckles of one hand over the sharp stubble of his jaw, a long sigh leaving his mouth. Jack’s looking at him expectantly, as if his insight holds the answers to all of his questions. He’s right, but Will can’t let him know that.

“Definitely looks like the Ripper,” he murmurs, slowly circling the bench, careful not to tread on the dried blood covering the floor.

“Feel like him too?” Jack asks, voice rough.

Tilting his head to the side, Will closes his eyes. It’s more for show than anything else, small gestures that will make Jack think he’s having trouble understanding the scene in front of him.

The usual pendulum doesn’t swing in his mind, rather, images of Hannibal, blood soaked, face contorted in concentration, flash behind his eyes. He feels his stomach jolt, not unpleasantly, at the memory.  

“Yeah,” he says eventually, nodding. “It has…what was missing with Gideon.” 

“What can you tell us about it?”

“I don’t know, Jack. You know I’ve always had trouble with the Ripper. He’s hard to read.”

“Try harder then.”

Will sighs, the first signs of irritation colouring his face. “Why, can’t you do it? I don’t carry this unit. I’m barely a part of it.”

“This is _important,_ Will.”

“I know that,” Will says, repressing the urge to roll his eyes. “But there’s only so much I can do. I’m not a mind reader, Jack. What I can offer you is limited, and when it comes to the Chesapeake Ripper, I’m not particularly useful. He’s a sadistic psychopath who likes mutilating bodies and taking organs for the fun of it. I can’t give you much more than that.”

The lie leaves an uncomfortable taste on his tongue. He doesn’t like hiding his admiration for Hannibal’s work, for the art of it, but he knows he has to.

“What do you think he does with the organs, then? They could lead us to him.”

“I doubt it,” Will tells him, ignoring the stare of everyone else in the room. “He most likely keeps them somewhere untraceable. The organs would need careful refrigeration, otherwise they’ll…spoil.”

“Spoil?” Brian asks, looking between Will and Jack. “You think he’s eating them?”

“No, maybe, I just…organs are a weird trophy. If he doesn’t take care of them properly, they’ll rot and he’d be forced to dispose of them,” Will says, looking intently on the dead body as to avoid eye contact.

“Maybe our guy is a cannibal,” Beverly states, mouth set in an expression of disgust. “I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s already a serial killer.”

“How about we focus on our current issue and discuss the possibility of the Ripper being a cannibal later,” Jack says, looking around the room with a tired sigh. “We’ve got a lot to process.”

He sends a pointed look to the agents who had stopped working in favour of watching Will, nodding in satisfaction when they scramble back to doing their jobs.

“Are you going to stay and help?”

Will knows he doesn’t have to, but there’s a part of him that wants to stay, to continue to see how they treat his and Hannibal’s work.

“I didn’t drive all the way here for nothing,” he answers, taking the offered pair of gloves and getting to work.

*

“How was it?”

Will smiles softly from his spot on the counter, eyes watching Hannibal as the other man fills pots and pans with various oils and spices.

“Good,” he admits. “I liked it.”

“A lot of people do.”

Will hums in agreement, resisting the urge to swing his legs like a small child. He’s surprised Hannibal’s even letting him sit there; he doesn’t want to push it.

“Did you see the article?”

“Indeed I did,” Hannibal replies, carefully placing the first bit of meat in the pan, a sizzling sound filling the kitchen. “Miss Lounds was quite quick to upload her thoughts.”

“Always is,” Will mutters. “She snuck into the house to take pictures. No one even saw her.”

“Perhaps she has allies on the inside.”

“Maybe.”

“It would be beneficial.”

“That it would,” Will agrees, sighing. “Did Jack call you?”

“Around lunch time,” Hannibal tells him, flipping the strip of meat. “He wants my help.”

“With what?”

“Profiling the Ripper. He said you and I may be able to create something more…solid.”

Will snorts before sipping at the glass of wine Hannibal had handed to him when he’d first arrived, “How fitting.”

Hannibal turns to look at him, a small smirk playing at his mouth, “I think he wants us to explore the possibility of cannibalism.”

Will laughs, the sound escaping in a puff of air as he looks towards the strips of lung that pile on Hannibal’s chopping board.

“I’m sorry I let that slip.”

“No matter,” Hannibal assures him. “It’s hardly important if we’re the ones profiling him.”

“Still,” Will says, “I can’t imagine it’ll help.”

He watches as Hannibal adds more meat to the pan, a delicious aroma filling the kitchen as it cooks.

“You’ve fed me human meat before, haven’t you?”

Hannibal allows himself a small smile at the blunt question, “Yes.”

“I couldn’t tell the difference.”

“I didn’t expect you to,” Hannibal tells him. “Most people wouldn’t be able to, especially when I prepare it as I do.”

“How long have you been eating it?”

“I acquired a taste for it as a young man.”

“Do I even want to know how?”

Smile widening, he turns back towards Will, “Perhaps that’s a story for another night.”

Will nods silently, bringing his wineglass to his mouth for another sip.

“To be perfectly honest,” Hannibal says slowly, stepping away from the stove and towards Will, “I’m surprised you figured it out so quickly.”

Will shrugs, “I merely suspected it. You’re the one who confirmed it.”

“You don’t seem particularly bothered by it,” Hannibal points out, hand reaching out for Will’s wineglass. Will assumes it’s so he can refill it, but the other man surprises him by bringing the glass to his own lips and drinking its contents.

He follows the movements of Hannibal’s throat as he swallows the sweet liquid, subconsciously swiping his tongue over his bottom lip as he does so.

“It’s hardly the worst thing you could do,” he eventually says.

Hannibal’s lips tilt upwards in a small smile, “No, I suppose it’s not.”

Will watches as he returns to the stove, flipping the meat just in time to stop it from burning. He watches the lines of Hannibal’s back, the movement of his ironed shirt as he works. It reminds him of the dream he had the night before, and he feels a warm flush creep across his neck and face. He hasn’t had any time to process what the dream had meant, and he doesn’t think sitting on Hannibal’s kitchen counter is the best place to do it.

He’s almost glad when they hear the doorbell ring, the sound barely audible over the sizzling of the meat.

“I still can’t believe you invited Jack,” Will tells the doctor, hopping down from his spot on the counter.

“He said he wanted to talk,” Hannibal says. “I thought dinner would be a good idea.”

“Of course you did,” Will mumbles fondly, already moving to the main entryway as he continues, “I’ll answer the door, shall I?”

Hannibal smiles as he adds another strip of meat to the pan, listening carefully as Will goes to answer the door and let the other man in.

*

“What is it you wanted to discuss?” Hannibal asks Jack once they’re all seated at his dining table, plates and glasses full.

“Ah, yes. Yesterday, at the crime scene, Will mentioned something that made us think perhaps the Chesapeake Ripper is…consuming the organs he takes from his victims,” Jack answers, and Hannibal suppresses a smirk at the evident disgust that accompanies the notion.

“You want Will and I to explore that possibility in depth?”

“I’d like you and Will to create an extensive profile,” Jack clarifies. “With your psychological training, and Will’s ability to empathise with serial killers, I think it would be extremely beneficial.”

Hannibal takes another bite of his food before turning towards Will, “What do you think?”

Shrugging, Will replies, “I’m willing if you are.”

“Of course I am,” Hannibal tells him, smiling while Jack nods in satisfaction.

They spend the rest of the meal discussing how the profiling will work, and when Jack mentions how good the ‘lamb’ is, Will looks at Hannibal with mirth shining in his eyes, and a small, personal smile gracing his features.

*

Will stares down at his phone, lips parted in silent shock as he reads and rereads the latest text from Hannibal. He hadn’t known what to expect when his phone lit up with the message, but _this_ definitely wasn’t it.

The words _I’d like to take you to the opera_ are displayed on the screen, black against the familiar grey bubble.

He doesn’t know how to reply, doesn’t know if Hannibal’s merely sharing a thought or if he’s actually asking. Opera wasn’t something he’d ever been interested in, but the fact that Hannibal enjoyed it didn’t surprise him at all. He types a reply, going with his first assumption, but quickly erases it when another text comes through.

_Next Saturday, if you’ll let me._

He reads it another three times before finally settling on a response.

_Are we celebrating?_

_If you want to think of it that way_ , Hannibal replies almost instantly, and Will can picture the faint smile the other man undoubtedly has on his face.

He knows there are questions he should probably ask, more details he should gather, but something in his gut does a little flip at the thought of going to the opera with Hannibal, so instead he just sends a quick _I’d love to,_ and hopes he’s not making a tremendous mistake.

*

Hannibal buys him a tux. A proper, tailored tux made from what Will knows is expensive material. He’d tried to argue at first, but had eventually given in and taken the garment bag with a resigned sigh.

He’d trimmed his beard and styled his hair for the occasion, a single, soft curl falling across his forehead elegantly. The appreciative look Hannibal had given him when he’d emerged from the bathroom had not gone unnoticed.

The car ride there had been mostly silent, and now he stands a step behind Hannibal as Baltimore’s elite continue to approach them, mindless pleasantries being exchanged back and forth.

He feels uncomfortable; like he’s being judged. He’s hyperaware of the looks he and Hannibal receive, or, really, that _he_ receives. Everyone seems to be sizing him up, gossiping about the _arm candy_ Hannibal had brought. The feeling makes his stomach flutter unpleasantly and, by the time he introduces himself to what feels like the fiftieth person, he’s leaning in towards Hannibal, whispering quietly to excuse himself to the bathroom for a moment.

The other man looks him over, subtle concern etched on his face, and asks, “Would you prefer if we left?”

If he were to be truthful, Will would say yes. Alas, he feels guilty that Hannibal would even _offer_ to leave, after putting in so much effort, and so he finds himself shaking his head at the suggestion.

“No, no, it’s fine. Really. I just need a breather.”

Hannibal nods and smiles faintly, “It will quiet down when the act begins, but if you change your mind…”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll be fine,” he assures him, quickly, flashing a smile before turning away, leaving the man with their current company.

*

“It really is a pity, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal looks away from Will’s retreating form and back towards their company, sending the couple a tight lipped smile.

“What is, Mr. White?”

“Whenever my respect for you begins to return, you seem to go back to male _playthings_.”

“ _Richard!_ ” the woman standing in front of him gasps, swatting her husband’s arm. “You ought not to say things like that.”

“It’s perfectly alright, Elizabeth,” Hannibal murmurs, cocking an eyebrow at the other man before continuing. “It is because I have a _plaything_ , as you so eloquently put it, or because he is a male?”

“Both,” Richard mutters. “It’s not proper, Hannibal. It gives you a bad image.”

Hannibal smiles then, the sharp points of his teeth on display as he maintains eye contact with the other man. “Does it?” he says, perfectly calm. “Funny, no one has ever said anything.”

“Everyone thinks it.”

“Mm, do you share your husband’s opinions, Mrs White?”

“No, of course not, dear,” the woman replies quickly, sending her husband a pointed look. “I daresay Richard’s just had too much to drink.”

“Indeed,” Hannibal murmurs, looking towards the door as Will reappears. “If you’ll excuse me, my plaything and I must find our seats.”

*

“Feeling better?”

Will nods minutely, forcing a quick smile to his face. “Everything okay? You look annoyed.”

“Nothing that cannot be easily dealt with.”

 “Okay,” Will says slowly. “How long till it starts?”

“Any minute now,” Hannibal tells him, placing the palm of his hand against Will’s lower back. “Come, we’ll sit down.”

Warmth floods through his body as Hannibal leads him into the performance room. It’s smaller than he expected, more intimate, but he doesn’t comment. Their seats are on the edge of the left side, and Hannibal lets him have the spot next to the isle. It’s a small relief he won’t have to sit next to anyone but Hannibal during the performance; he’d never been good with large crowds.

The room quickly fills, men and women dressed in impeccable suits and vast gowns taking their seats. Hannibal leans towards him to murmur his opinions of some of the people they see, his breath hot against Will’s ear. The sensation makes him squirm lightly, and he’s grateful when the lights dim and Hannibal straightens his posture, his full attention shifting to the woman who graces the stage.

The people around him seem completely enamoured with the woman as she starts to sing, and although the music isn’t exactly _enjoyable_ to Will, he can appreciate the beauty of it, the art.

Still, he finds himself spending the night watching Hannibal from the corner of his eye.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a little longer than expected because I kept rewriting it. I'm still not entirely happy, but I hope you enjoy! I wrote most of this in the early hours of the morning, so I'm sorry for any mistakes!  
> Visual references in the end notes. 
> 
> Chapter warnings: graphic depictions of a dead/mutilated body, explicit sex that involves some pretty weird, murder-y, cannibalism-y dirty talk.

_it's dangerous to fall in love_

_but I want to burn with you tonight_

_*_

“So this is where you work.”

Will’s head snaps towards the sound of the voice, a small grin lighting up his face as he spots Hannibal walking towards his desk, a manila folder in one hand.

“Sorry it’s not as fancy as your office.”

Hannibal huffs a laugh, the sound barely audible as he stops in front of Will. “Are you busy?” he asks, nodding towards the stack of papers lying on the desk.

“Just finished marking them. Why?”

“I finished the profile,” he replies, handing the folder to Will. “I thought perhaps you’d like to read it before we give it to Jack.”

Will opens the file, eyes skimming over the words he and Hannibal had spent the last week and a half working on. “Did you add much to what I sent you?”

“Not a lot,” Hannibal tells him, sitting on the corner of Will’s desk. “Just tweaked it.”

“Think it’ll be good enough?”

“It’s very thorough.”

 Leaning back in his chair, face tilting upwards, Will says, “I think Jack wanted us to wait.”

“For what?”

“The next one. Or the next two. The Ripper usually kills in threes.”

“And he will,” Hannibal murmurs, mouth tilting up in a smirk.

Will didn’t doubt that. He knew Hannibal would kill again, in the near future, to complete the Ripper’s cycle. He just wasn’t sure if he would be asked to join the other man for a second time.

He knows he wants to.

“Do you think we should wait?”

“Maybe. The new kills might bring more information that we’ll _have_ to include.”

“Then I’ll keep the file in my office, ready for when it is needed.” Hannibal tells him. “Has there been any progress with our case?”

Will shakes his head, fingers tapping against the paper of their profile. “They still have no clue. Nothing was left behind.”

“There never is.”

“It’s driving them all mad,” Will says, a smile growing on his face as he stands. “Jack wants to close it before the next one.”

“Something tells me that won’t happen.”

“No, I don’t think it will.”

*

His questions are answered by a phone call a few days later.

He’s fresh out the shower when his phone beeps, screen lighting up with Jack’s contact. He wraps a towel around his waist before answering, already knowing what the call is about.

“Hello?”

“ _There’s been another one_ ,” Jack’s voice comes through the phone, his tone obviously angry.

“The Ripper?”

_“Looks like it.”_

“Text me the address and I’ll meet you there,” Will says, hanging up before quickly getting dressed.

He wishes Hannibal would have invited him, just so he could see the other man work once again, to feel the pleasant rush consume his body as they worked together. Nevertheless, he’s excited to see what kind of masterpiece Hannibal had created.

*

The crime scene is a field, a vast slate of land situated in the middle of nowhere. It is overgrown with trees and vegetation, filled with hiding spots and openings that are perfect for a crime.

Jack meets him in front of an opening, his mouth set into a grim line as they step under the yellow tape and past the investigation team.

“It’s up this way,” he tells Will. “A couple of hikers found him early this morning. We don’t know how long he’s been here for yet.”

Will nods and follows Jack down the narrow, dirt path.  It’s secluded, private, and Will silently marvels at Hannibal’s decision. It is a couple hundred meters until they reach a clearing, circular in shape, and Will stops at the sight that greets him.

In the middle of the clearing sits an old style swing set, its metal chains and support beams rusted with age. Two sets of chains hang from the top bar, and Will trails his eyes down to reveal two wooden swings, yet only the right one is empty. In the left sits the naked body of a middle aged man, pale skin coloured by the reddish brown of dried blood. The man is held up by another, newer metal beam, his body strapped to it with thin wire.

The man’s organs lie in the grass at his feet, and as Will moves closer, he spots the open chest, the small array of flowers that fill it. Delicate, white flowers sit in a bed of green flora, with one large, red rose poking out near the left, where the heart should be.  He has the urge to touch them, to run the pads of his fingers against the soft looking petals.

“They’re a love letter,” Jimmy calls to him. “Arbutus flowers, ivy, and a thornless red rose. They’re symbols of love. Do you think he loved this victim?”

“I think it was a relationship gone wrong,” Beverly answers before Will can.

“Why would you say that?”

“Look at his crotch,” Beverly tells him, grimacing.

Brow furrowing, Will does as she asks and… oh. Blood stains the man’s lower stomach and thighs, and Will feels a little sick as he looks in between the man’s legs. Instead of genitalia, he finds an open, oozing wound.

“He’s been castrated.”

“Yep.”

“Right,” Will says slowly, searching the array of organs at the man’s feet and frowning when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. “Where, uh, where are they?”

He hears both Brian and Jimmy sigh as Beverly moves closer to the body, her gloved hand reaching out to grab the man’s face. Will hadn’t bothered looking at his head until now, his mind too engrossed with trying to unravel everything else about the scene, but his eyes widen in surprise as Beverly lifts the face and cold, dead eyes stare back at him. The face is familiar, but any information of the man escapes Will as he spots his mouth.

“Shoved down his throat,” Beverly finally says, and Will feels an absurd urge to laugh.

Instead, he rubs a hand over his jaw, eyes diverting to the flowers as he quietly murmurs, “Of course they are.”

“What do you think, Will?” Jack finally asks, and Will sighs.

“Are you positive it’s the Ripper? It’s a bit…different to his usual style.”

“I think it’s different because there’s more meaning to this one,” Beverly answers. “I mean, it’s got the Ripper’s dramatics.”

 _That it certainly did_ , Will thinks, resisting the urge to sigh. Hannibal’s love for theatrical display could be his downfall, if he wasn’t careful.

“Was there anything taken?”

“Just the heart,” Brian says. “At least, we haven’t found it yet.”

“Another contributing factor to the lover gone wrong theory,” Jimmy points out.

Will nods, his exterior calm as his heart beats rapidly. The scene before him is definitely symbolic of love, but not for the reasons the others had pointed out. He can see why a relationship gone wrong is an obvious conclusion, but the knowledge he has of Hannibal, of how the other man thinks and acts, makes his interpretation of the scene different. A love letter, yes, but not to the man on the swing.

To the person viewing it.

Staring at the display before him, the horrifically beautiful piece of art, Will _knows_ Hannibal will request his presence at dinner tonight.

*

“Good evening, Doctor.”

“Will,” Hannibal greets, a smile on his face. “I’m glad you decided to come.”

“You asked so politely I felt obliged,” Will tells him, following the man into the kitchen.

“I hope obligation is not the only reason you chose to come.”

“Of course not,” Will says, accepting the glass of wine offered to him.

Hannibal smiles at him once more, and Will wonders who will bring up the murder first. He’s not entirely sure Hannibal is aware that they know about it, or that Will has seen it. Either way, he refrains from mentioning it until they’re situated at the older man’s dining table, dishes filled with delicious food in front of them.

“Heart tartare,” Hannibal murmurs as he picks up a fork, and Will exhales a laugh.

 “Seriously?” Will can’t help but ask, lips turned up into a grin. “You’re not going to even try to be subtle?”

“Why should I?” Hannibal asks calmly, eyes trained on Will’s as he brings a fork to his mouth.  “There’s no reason to, not while I am with you.”

Will watches the movements of Hannibal’s throat as he swallows the meat. “No, I suppose there’s not,” he admits before swallowing his own forkful, the rich flavours of Richard White’s heart coating his tongue.

“He was found quicker than I anticipated,” Hannibal reveals before taking another bite.

“I’m surprised he was found at all. The location was rather secluded.”

“They always are,” Hannibal says. “I need privacy to do what I do, Will.”

“Is that why you didn’t invite me?”

“No,” Hannibal tells him, placing his knife and fork across his plate. “Are you upset I didn’t ask you to join me?”

“A little.”

Hannibal smiles at him from across the table, warmth flooding his eyes as he looks at Will.

“Will,” he starts, clearing his throat. “I would love nothing more than for you to be at my side while I hunt, but surely you understand why I could not have you there with Mr. White.”

“Because you wanted me to discover him.”

“Yes.”

Will swallows dryly, the sound audible in the silent room, before he quietly states, “Because the display was meant for me.”

“Yes,” Hannibal repeats. “What did you think of it?”

“It was beautiful,” Will whispers after a moment of silence. “They… they didn’t understand the meaning to it, but I did.”

“And what do you think the meaning was, Will?” Hannibal prompts, face displaying barely contained excitement as he watches the other man. “What was I trying to convey?”

“It was an offering.”

“An offering of what?”

“Your heart,” Will says, his voice still a quiet rasp. “Not literally, of course. I’m not currently eating your heart, but the display… it was a declaration of your love.”

“You seem very sure of yourself.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No, my dear boy. You are very right,” Hannibal tells him, content, before motioning to his plate. “Finish your meal.”

Will has questions he wants to ask, thoughts he wants to process, but as he watches Hannibal resume eating, he can’t help but do the same. They have time, after all.

*

“Why did you do it?”

“He made a few unnecessary comments,” Hannibal answers, looking up at Will from his place on the couch.

Dinner had passed without another mention of the murder, or the meaning of the display, and now Will stands in one of Hannibal’s rooms, eyes trained on the cackling fireplace as he tries to sort out his thoughts.

“Seems like an overreaction,” he says, sipping at a glass of wine, lips red and glistening in the light of the fire.

“I can assure you, it wasn’t.”

Will hums but doesn’t comment. He’s not sure what Mr. White had said while he’d been in the bathroom, but he still thinks it wouldn’t have warranted Hannibal’s actions.

“You asked to see me, Will,” Hannibal murmurs. “To understand me. Do you think you’ve succeeded?”

“I think I understand you as much as anyone could.”

“Do you like what you see?”

Will places his wineglass on the mantel before turning to look at Hannibal, a hint of a smile on his face, “Sounding a little desperate there, doctor.”

Hannibal stands, too, his own glass joining Will’s before he speaks. “Not desperate,” he murmurs. “I just want to be sure.”

Will’s heartbeat quickens as Hannibal moves closer towards him, his stomach filling with a sudden, unexpected nervousness he can’t describe. He subconsciously runs his tongue across his bottom lip before quietly replying, “I like what I see.”

Hannibal smiles at him, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes as he looks down at Will. He reaches an arm out, his hand moving to gently cradle the side of Will’s face, the pad of his thumb caressing the other man’s cheek. He inches forward slowly, slow enough that Will has time to move away, and then his lips are on Will’s, the movement gentle, experimental.

Will almost, _almost_ , forgets to kiss back. He’s a little stunned that Hannibal had just gone for it, but his body hums with the pleasure of the other man’s touch, and he finds himself leaning towards him, his hands moving to clutch at the doctor’s suit jacket. He opens his mouth, a content sigh catching in his throat as Hannibal kisses him with more force, and he _knows_ he’s opening himself up to much more than just a tongue.

Eventually, Hannibal pulls away from him, chest heaving lightly with the need for air. He pulls Will closer, his spare arm wrapping around the other man’s middle. “Do you wish to continue?” he whispers, warm puffs of air hitting the exposed skin of Will’s neck.

Wordlessly, Will nods, his grip on the other man’s jacket tightening as Hannibal kisses him once more.

*

Hannibal’s eyes are alight with a ravenous hunger when they finally reach his bed. He works quickly and efficiently to remove both of their clothing, actions fuelled with each approving noise that escapes Will’s mouth. It’s not long until they’re both naked, Will spread out on Hannibal’s bed whilst the doctor kneels above him, hands stroking down the skin of Will’s torso.

Hannibal leans down to kiss him, lips leaving a damp trail over Will’s neck before asking, “Have you done this before?”

“Not for a long time.”

“I’ll ease you into it, then,” Hannibal tells him.

Hannibal seems content to let his lips continue their assault on his skin, so Will lays back, body buzzing with an almost forgotten pleasure as Hannibal moves above him. The other man’s hands are everywhere, touching, caressing, stroking, familiarising themselves with each and every crook of his form, the soft pressure of lips following their movements. He finds himself arching up into each touch, his body bending and twisting any way Hannibal’s hands command.

His body jolts when Hannibal’s fingers finally run over his hard cock, a low whine escaping his mouth when the movement is followed by a tongue. His hand inadvertently reaches out to rest atop the doctor’s head, his fingers tangling in the locks that rest against the nape of Hannibal’s neck. He can’t stop the mantra of gasps and moans that leave his mouth as Hannibal continues, the other man engulfing him completely.

Despite their positioning, Hannibal is still very much in control. He has a hand placed against Will’s hip, his arm offering enough strength to ensure that Will can’t thrust up unless Hannibal wants him to. The pace isn’t particularly fast, but all of the day’s sensations make Will especially responsive, and he finds himself nearing the edge much sooner than he would like.

Regretfully, he tugs on Hannibal’s hair, voice a harsh whisper when he says, “Hannibal, I—”

The other man understands without him having to explain further, and he pulls away from Will quickly, a smile on his face as he looks up at him. Hannibal leans over Will’s body to reach the bedside table, hand rummaging through its contents until he finds what he needs.

“How do you want to do this?” Hannibal asks as he moves to rest on his heels.

“I want to be able to see you.”

“On your back, then,” Hannibal says, pleased. “Scoot upwards.”

Will does as he’s told, eyes fixated on Hannibal’s hands as the other man covers three of his fingers with lube. “Ready?” he questions, dry hand moving to Will’s thigh, encouraging him to spread his legs.

Will nods wordlessly, breath hitching at the first touch against his hole. He sighs deeply as Hannibal slips the first finger in, eyes fluttering closed as he loses himself in the rhythmic pleasure. It doesn’t take long for Hannibal to make two more fingers join the first, eyes shining as he watches Will come undone before him, because of him.

“Please,” Will breathes, fighting the urge to scream as Hannibal presses against his prostate. “I want—I’m not going to…”

Hannibal nods, rubbing his fingers against Will’s prostate one more time before withdrawing his hand. Will watches as Hannibal rips a condom open with his teeth, the action oddly arousing. He wants to ask if they have to use it, he wants to be as close to Hannibal as he possibly can, but knows the doctor would say yes. For now, at least.

After preparing himself, Hannibal’s thumb strokes at Will’s hip, the motion soothing as he aligns himself with Will’s entrance. A long, low groan escapes his mouth as he eases himself in slowly, head hanging forward as Will reaches for him. He kisses the other man once he’s inside completely, eyes shutting at the sensation.

“Ready?” Hannibal asks softly, mouthing at the skin of Will’s neck.

Will nods, pushing back against him as he begins to thrust in and out. He watches Hannibal’s face as their pace quickens, moans falling from his lips as arousal consumes his body. He links his gaze with Hannibal’s, back arching as he spots the glint there; it’s something feral, animalistic, and it reminds him of the look he had while killing Matthew Brown.

He kisses him again, his nails scratching against the tight skin of Hannibal’s shoulders as their bodies move together. He doesn’t know why, can’t explain the sudden, burning need to know, but once their kiss brakes, he finds himself asking, “How would you do it?”

“What?”

“Kill me,” Will clarifies, lips pressed just under Hannibal’s ear. “How would you kill me?”

The other man doesn’t stop his movements; if anything, they get more brutal as he replies; “Painlessly.”

“That’s generous of you.”

 A laugh leaves Hannibal’s mouth in a puff of air, his lips finding Will’s again before continuing. “I would take my time with your body.”

“You better _ruhh.”_

“Do you want me to put you on display, Will? Turn you into the most exquisite piece of artwork; show everyone just how beautiful you are?”

Will nods wordlessly, almost fanatically. He can feel the warmth of Hannibal’s blood against his fingers as his nails finally break the skin, the unmistakable smell of iron filling the air. It makes him remember his dream, of blood soaked bodies moving against each other, and he screams as Hannibal slams against his prostate.

“Would you eat me?” he asks, words escaping through a moan. He’s surprised Hannibal even understands the question.

“Yes,” is the reply, lips moving against skin as the hold of Hannibal’s hands tighten hard enough to bruise. “I would eat your heart.”

Will doesn’t reply. Instead, he falls back into the mattress, his legs wrapping around Hannibal’s waist, body arching up to meet every one of Hannibal’s thrusts. The sound of their sighs and moans and skin slapping against skin fill the room, and Will finds himself getting closer and closer to his climax. His fingers continue to scratch against the other man’s back, blood coating his palms in a manner that only adds to his arousal.

Almost as if he can sense Will’s growing desperation, Hannibal reaches his hand to curl around the other man’s erection, fingers squeezing and stroking until Will’s coming, creamy white spurts coating his hand and both of their stomachs. Hannibal follows almost immediately, teeth biting down on Will’s shoulder as he fills the condom.

He collapses on top of Will, the sound of their heavy breathing filling the room. He stays there until he catches his breath, tongue licking at the bite mark he’s just made.

“I’m glad we done that,” Will says, hands stroking down Hannibal’s back.

“As am I,” he replies. “However, I think we ought to clean up.

“Can’t it wait?”

Hannibal places a quick, chaste kiss to Will’s mouth. “No,” he says, smiling as he gently pulls out and rolls the condom off.

Will wines at the loss of contact, his body feeling empty as Hannibal disappears into a bathroom. He waits for Hannibal to return with a wet cloth, moving as the other man asks once he does. He lets Hannibal dress him in boxers, sleep already tugging at his mind’s consciousness as he watches Hannibal clean up. By the time the other man crawls back into bed, his lower half covered in cotton pants, Will’s already half asleep.

He curls into Hannibal, cheek dropping to rest against the hard chest as he mumbles, “Would you really only eat my heart?”

Hannibal laughs, the sound bringing a sleepy smile to Will’s face as he feels the vibrations of the doctor’s chest. “Perhaps your brain, as well,” he says. “I might even feed it to Jack, so he could pick at it one last time.”

Will laughs too, then, the absurdity of their situation seeming even funnier in his semi-conscious state. “I’m sure he’d enjoy that,” he mumbles, pausing briefly before continuing. “Would you feel remorseful?”

Hannibal places a kiss atop his head, lips gentle against his hairline, before answering, “If I were going to be repentant, it would be with you.”

Despite everything wrong with their situation, the statement makes a warmth spread through Will, and when Hannibal hushes him to sleep, he goes with a smile on his face.

*

For the first time in a long time, Will wakes feeling well rested.

His body is tangled with Hannibal’s, arms and legs intertwining as they lay next to each other, the skin of Hannibal’s chest pressed against his back. There’s a slight ache to his body, he can feel bruises against his skin, but the dull pain doesn’t take from how content he is.

He can feel the rise and fall of Hannibal’s chest, can hear the soft sound of his breathing, and the subtle reminder of the other man’s life almost lulls him back to sleep. It would have, had the _ping_ of a phone not ruined his moment of bliss.

He didn’t recognise the sound, which meant it had to have come from Hannibal’s phone, wherever it was. He cracks his eyes open, squinting against the light that trickles in from the window, and reaches blindly for the watch on his bedside table. Once he gets hold of it, it takes him a minute to decipher the litter numbers and lines, his head muddled with sleep. A small sigh escapes his mouth when he does, though, and he has the urge to bury his face in the crook of Hannibal’s neck and ignore everything.

Text messages at 6:40AM were generally considered important.

The other man hadn’t woken up, though, and Will didn’t want to disrupt his peace. _It can wait_ , he thinks, leaning back against the warmth Hannibal’s body offers.

He’s almost back asleep when his own phone goes off. He’s prepared to ignore the message, but the small _bing_ is followed quickly by the loud noise of his ringtone, and he sighs. Detangling himself from Hannibal’s body, Will pads across the room to where his pants lay, phone still tucked into the back pocket. He misses the call by a second, but the screen lights up almost immediately after with another text. Annoyed at the interruption, he unlocks it quickly.

Both the messages and the call were from Jack, and Will sighs again as he reads them. They don’t offer much information about what the other man needs, with the first merely reading _I need you in my office_ while the second says _Now._

“I suppose it was too much to think we could have a blissful morning,” comes the voice behind him. Will turns, a smile lighting his face as he sees Hannibal, the doctor’s expression serene.

“It’s Jack.”

The other man yawns, back arching as he stretches, before replying, “It always is, isn’t it?”

Moving back towards the bed, Will says, “Your phone went off too.”

Hannibal nods and moves to grab it, squinting at its bright screen. “Jack wants me in his office,” Hannibal murmurs, head turning against the pillow to look back at Will. “Apparently it’s urgent.”

“Why would he want both of us?” Will asks, pausing before adding, “You don’t think he knows, do you?”

“Of course not, my darling boy,” Hannibal reassures, the soft tone and endearment washing over Will like warm water on a winter’s day. “He would not be so calm, if he knew.”

Will nods, eyes darting around the room before turning back to Hannibal. “I don’t have time to go home and change. He’ll know I stayed here if we arrive together.”

Hannibal hums, hand creeping towards Will to stroke the exposed skin of his thigh. “Perhaps that isn’t entirely a bad thing,” Hannibal says.

“Oh?”

“I don’t mind people knowing,” Hannibal admits. “However, we can always say we spent last night amending our profile after the Ripper’s latest kill. You live quite a while away, staying here would have only been practical.”

“I suppose that’ll work. I don’t want Jack to know my business.”

“Of course,” Hannibal murmurs, sitting up and leaning towards Will to place a chaste kiss against his lips. “Shall we get ready?”

Will grins, kissing Hannibal again before saying, “Sharing a shower would save time.”

“I am not completely sure about that theory, but we can definitely try.”

*

If there was anyone Will definitely did not want to see at 8AM, it was Freddie Lounds.

The sight of her sitting in Jack’s office makes him want to turn on the spot, an action he probably would have done had it not been for Hannibal standing directly behind him.

“Jack, Miss Lounds,” Hannibal says in greeting, gently nudging Will forward.

“What’s so urgent we have to be here at eight in the morning?” Will asks bluntly, letting Hannibal have the only free seat.

“Miss Lounds has shown me some valuable information in regards to the Ripper’s latest victim.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Freddie chimes. “You’ll take particular interest, I think, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal ignores her, choosing instead to ask Jack, “What is it?”

Sliding the manila folder towards Will and Hannibal, Jack says, “Do you two want to explain what the _hell_ this is?”

Will shoots Hannibal an odd look, but the other man merely lifts his shoulders in a light shrug before taking the file and opening it. Will clenches his jaw once he sees what’s inside, anxiety fluttering through his body instantly. He’s glad Hannibal’s expression doesn’t change.

Inside is a photo of the two of them from the opera. Hannibal’s head is bent as Will leans towards him, mouth positioned at his ear as he talks. It’s not a bad photo of them, Will can’t help but think. The moment looks intimate, and he thinks he’d enjoy it if Richard White and his wife hadn’t been standing right next to them.

Hannibal slides the picture to the side, exposing the one behind it. The shot shows both Mr. White and Hannibal, and Will’s surprised to see the annoyed expression Hannibal has in it. Hannibal shifts that photo as well, revealing the last of the bunch. This one is much older than the others, and although the quality isn’t particularly good, Will can still make out Hannibal’s distinctive features, once again standing next to a much younger Richard White.

Will leans further forward, eyes trailing over the images before sighing and looking back to Jack. “Look pictures from the opera to me,” he says, mostly because Hannibal seems happy to not say anything, and the silence was starting to get awkward.

“ _Will.”_

“What? They are,” he continues. “Except the last one, that looks like someone’s house.”

“You knew the victim and you didn’t tell me?”

Will sighs, “I don’t know the victim. As you can see, I didn’t stay around to chat.”

“You’re telling me you didn’t recognise him?”

“He had his chest ripped open and his balls shoved down his mouth, Jack. I was focused on other things.”

Jack doesn’t reply to him, instead he turns to Hannibal. “And you? Apparently the two of you go way back.”

“Richard was an old friend,” Hannibal replies, finally shutting the folder. “I apologise for not letting you know, Jack. It must’ve slipped my mind. You have to understand I was sad to hear of his death.”

Will almost laughs at that. He can think of many adjectives to describe Hannibal’s reaction to Mr. White’s death, _sad_ wasn’t one of them.

“Oh, please,” Freddie says. “I did my research. You and White were known for not getting along.”

Unimpressed, Hannibal looks over to her. “Your informants are wrong.”

“I’d say that photo backs up my argument pretty well. What did he do, Dr. Lecter? It must have been bad, to hang him up like that.”

“Your implications could be very damaging, Miss Lounds. I advise you to be more careful about what comes out of that mouth,” Hannibal murmurs.

“Is that a threat?”

“Please,” Jack says, cutting off Hannibal’s reply. “I did not bring you here to point fingers at people, Freddie. You should remember that. I don’t suspect you, Dr. Lecter, I just think this would have been valuable information.”

“Of course. I apologise for omitting it.”

Jack nods once, “How’s the profile coming along?”

“We made some changes last night,” Will says. “It’s not complete yet.”

“Well I need it. Pronto. We want to catch the bastard before the third kill.”

“We’ll have it done soon,” Hannibal tells him. “Is that all?”

*

They’re barely out the building before Freddie catches them, a smug look on her face once she does.

“I’m not stupid,” she says, looking pointedly at Hannibal. “I’ve been paying close attention to the two of you. I know something’s up.”

“And what might that be?”

“You’re involved. Somehow, the both of you are involved.”

“What makes you think that?” Will asks, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Does the name Michael Spencer mean anything to you, Mr. Graham?”

Will barely manages to keep the surprise from his face. “No. Why?”

“You’re lying.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Because he’s trying to maintain his innocent charade,” Freddie answers. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure it all out, and you should be ready when I do.”

Hannibal cocks an eyebrow, “Now _that_ sounds like a threat.”

“No one can hide everything, Dr. Lecter. There’s always a leak somewhere.”

“Indeed there is.”

*

Will waits until they’re far away from the building to speak, his voice quiet in the car. “She’s an issue we’re going to have to deal with.”

“Yes she is,” Hannibal responds, sighing as his fingers tap against the steering wheel. “I’ll start planning. In the meantime, I think we ought to feed ourselves, and then your dogs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe you could tell, but i don't usually like writing smut in fics like this one (which is why it's probably not the best smut i've ever written). but anyway, i hope you liked it/found it fitting. 
> 
> also, in case i didn't explain the swing set properly, here are some visual references; _[01](http://ak.picdn.net/offset/photos/55a02e8472375f2a29e55354/medium/offset_242435.jpg)_ [02](http://www.toledoblade.com/image/2011/08/04/800x_b1_cCM_z/Man-dies-awaiting-daughter-s-safe-return-2.jpg) [03](http://l7.alamy.com/zooms/88d8f68d370c407b84005db1288e8173/abandoned-swing-set-eedpwc.jpg) _[04](https://c1.staticflickr.com/7/6184/6128655035_5ff3c49447_b.jpg)._
> 
> flower visuals and meanings according to [this site](http://www.flowersonly.com/ezshopper/flomean.htm):
> 
>   1. [ivy plant](https://slm-assets1.secondlife.com/assets/1858777/lightbox/ae175902a92a5a24462b522680995d11.jpg?1279741584): fidelity, wedded love, friendship, affection, anxious to please.
>   2. [arbutus](https://bqekeeper.files.wordpress.com/2013/04/may1.jpg): thee only do i love
>   3. [thornless red rose](http://www.marcogrill.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/rose_big.jpg): love, respect, i love you, love at first site. 
> 

> 
> Not long left now!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I was writing stuff for spacedogs week, and then I started Uni and had no time. Anyway, I hope this is the ending you all hoped for!
> 
> Chapter warnings: Will being a sad smol, graphic violence and dead bodies, homophobia.

_i got all i need_

_when you're here loving me_

_fire meet gasoline_

_burn with me tonight_

_*_

“What do you think we should do?”

“It is obvious she knows something about our involvement that could be detrimental to our lives here.”

“Something she will undoubtedly tell everyone, and then they’ll all know,” Will mutters, watching as his dogs run around the yard, happy and fed, not a care in the world. “Killing her would be like giftwrapping the truth.”

“Unfortunately, it is inevitable that they discover our secret,” Hannibal murmurs, snaking an arm around Will’s waist and bringing him closer. “It is only a matter of whether or not we want Miss Lounds alive.”

Will leans into Hannibal’s embrace, relishing the warmth the other man offers in the chilled air. “We may as well have some fun.”

Hannibal places a soft kiss to the top of Will’s forehead, lips stretching into a smile. “I was hoping you would say that.”

Will smiles back, the serenity of their morning returning.

“We’d have to flee afterwards. Otherwise we’ll get caught.”

“I can arrange that,” Hannibal tells him. “I can arrange a perfect getaway, just the two of us, if that is what you want.”

“I’d have to leave my dogs behind.”

Hannibal sighs, eyes following the wagging tails of Will’s beloved dogs. To him, they mean next to nothing, but he understands the affection Will feels, and he wishes he didn’t have to ruin that.

“Yes,” he says, voice quiet. “I’m sorry, my dear boy, but I cannot get seven dogs on an aeroplane without raising suspicion.”  

Will nods and turns in Hannibal’s embrace, moving so his face buries in the crook of the older man’s neck, his cheek rubbing against the fabric of his jacket. “Will you let me get new ones?” he murmurs, arms enclosing around Hannibal’s waist.

Hannibal pulls him close, an almost unsettling warmth spreading through his chest at Will’s open affection. “I’ll give you anything your heart desires, Will.”

Will pulls back slightly, just enough so he’s able to see Hannibal’s face. He smiles at the fondness he finds, his mind automatically contrasting it with the way the other man looks while killing someone.

He leans up, mouth pressing against Hannibal gently before saying, “Give me a day or two to figure out my dogs.”

*

They move inside once the dogs tire, and though it takes some convincing, Will manages to get Hannibal to lie in his bed, arms wrapped around Will while the animals sleep around them.

“This is unhygienic.”

“I don’t care,” Will tells him, snuggling into his side while an arm remains stretched out, fingers threading through the soft fur of Winston’s head. “Besides, I want to spend some time with them before they go.”

“Would you prefer I leave?”

“No,” he says, stifling a yawn. “Jack may have ruined our morning, but I still want my post-sex cuddling.”

Hannibal huffs a laugh, his fingers playing with Will’s soft curls. “Perhaps a nap is in order.”

“Mmhm, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

*

The last to go is Bean.

Will holds her till the new owner comes; her small body tucked against his as he pets her absentmindedly. It had been harder than he’d thought, saying goodbye. Each of his dogs had held a special place in his heart, and it was sad to see them go, their little faces confused as he waved goodbye for the last time.

The sound of a car pulls him from his trance, and he goes to the front porch to meet Bean’s new family. A young woman and her young daughter step from the car, the little girl’s face split in a wide, excited grin as she sees the puppy in Will’s hands.

He’d made sure each of his dogs would go to a loving family, where they’d be taken care of sufficiently. He smiles through the lump in his throat as the girl reaches him, crouching down to safely put Bean on the floor, her tail wagging with the girl’s enthusiasm.

The girl’s giggle fills the air as Bean licks her face, and Will’s smile comes easier as he watches on. He stands to shake hands with the mother, accepting her gratitude with a simple nod. 

It’s a quick exchange. He helps them pile Bean’s things into the car, scratching behind her ears one last time before the door shuts on him and the little family drive away, gavel crunching under the tires.

He moves back inside only when the car disappears from sight, the lump returning to his throat as he looks around, the absence of his dogs and their beds, their toys, tugging at his heart.

He sits back down in his previous spot, his hand reaching for the glass of whiskey on the table next to him. His spare hand wipes at the dog hair still dirtying his furniture, and he downs the remaining alcohol before pulling his phone out.

He calls Hannibal, sighing in relief when the man answers on the second ring.

“ _Hello, Will_.”

“Hey.”

“ _Are you alright_?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, rubbing at his eye. “Just… what are you doing?”

“ _Organising_ _some paperwork_ ,” Hannibal answers, and Will can hear him walking around on the other end of the phone. “ _I was just about to call you_.”

“Oh?”

“ _Mm. I need to know if you would rather be an Antonio or an Eloan_.”

“… _Why_?”

“ _So we can leave the country without gaining too much attention. Using our real names would lead the authorities right to us_.”

“Do I even want to know how you know how to do that?”

“ _No_.”

“Right,” Will murmurs, lips tugging into a smile. “I suppose I’ll be Antonio.”

“ _Excellent_ ,” Hannibal tells him. “ _I’ll have everything in order within a day or two_.”

“And then we just have to deal with Freddie.”

“ _Mm._ ”

“How do we get close to her without raising suspicion.”

“ _We could grant an interview_.”

“That would raise suspicion,” Will says, moving to pour himself another drink.

“ _It is the easiest way to do it, and it won’t matter if people think it odd. The truth will be out shortly_.”

“I suppose,” Will says, sipping the whiskey. “I’ll send her an email and let you know what she says.”

“ _Please do_ ,” Hannibal murmurs. “ _In the meantime, would you tell me why you sound so upset?_ ”

“All of my dogs are gone.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Hannibal sighs, nodding on his end of the conversation. “ _Is there anything I can do to cheer you up_?”

“Do you think you can stay on the phone for a little while?”

_“Of course, Will.”_

*

He reads and rereads the email ten times; rewriting it at least twice before he settles on something he’s happy with, something that won’t set off any warning bells. It’s only short, but that’s all he needs. Will knows it won’t take much to lure Freddie.

As he suspects, the confirmation email comes within the hour. They decide upon a time and date for an interview, and he’s persistent in making sure it’s at his home, not Freddie’s or Hannibal’s. It’ll be easier that way.

Once it’s finalised, he leaves to tell Hannibal.

*

Hannibal smells him instantly.

The tang of the now familiar aftershave assaults his nostrils as he enters his office, and he looks up, gaze trailing over the balcony until he spots Will, body hunched in a spot between his books and the banister.

“Will?”

“Where were you?”

Hannibal moves to the ladder, hands resting on either side as he tilts his neck back to look up. “With my psychiatrist.”

“Oh.”

“Did you think something bad had happened?”

“I… I don’t know. You didn’t answer your phone.”

Will shows no inclination to come down to the main floor, so Hannibal climbs up to him. He looks to the ground, contemplating for a moment before taking a seat next to Will. Close, but not touching.

“It was off. Bedelia is… particular about that sort of thing. Seeing as I insist on her therapy, it would be rude to not comply.”

He stares at Will, the tension in his shoulders, the worry creased in the lines of his face.

“Is something the matter?”

Will sighs, head falling to the side to rest on Hannibal’s shoulder, his eyes closing for a moment. “No…no, I’m just anxious. I thought something may have gone wrong.”

Hannibal lifts his arm, warps it around Will’s shoulders so the man’s face rests against his chest. “Surprisingly, everything seems to be going smoothly.”

Will nods against his chest, the fabric of Hannibal’s suit rustling with the movement. “I heard from Freddie.”

“What did she say?”

“We have an interview at my place tomorrow night. At least, I have an interview,” he huffs a laugh, the noise barely audible in the office. “She said you’re more than welcome to come, if you can.”

“I don’t think I’ll be missing that,” he answers, fingers tucking a stray curl behind Will’s ear. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“We can’t have that,” he says, reluctantly pulling away from Will. Standing, Hannibal reaches a hand out, helping the other man to his feet and watching as he climbs down the ladder.

“I have leftovers and wine,” he says, once they’re both on the main floor. “However, if that doesn’t rid you of your anxiety, I know something else that will.”

Will grins, “Maybe dinner can wait then?”

*

It’s dusk when Will hears Freddie’s car pull into his driveway. Sun and clouds low in the sky, a beautiful orange-y pink lighting his farm as he goes to meet her on the porch.

“I didn’t think there’d be a day where you agreed to an interview, Graham.”

“Neither did I.”

He doesn’t meet Freddie’s gaze as she steps on his porch, choosing instead to stare out into the fields, where he knows Hannibal lurks.

“Where’s Doctor Lecter?”

“He’ll be joining us later,” Will replies, lips turning in a tight lipped smile as he finally looks at her. “Shall we begin?”

He doesn’t offer her refreshments, doesn’t even open the door to allow her in his home. He has no intention of letting their talk last long; he’ll get the bit of information he wants, and then…

Freddie flicks the switch of her recording device, waiting for it to start up before asking; “What made you agree to an interview?”

“I want to know what you know about Michael Spencer.”

“So he does mean something to you?”

“The name sounded familiar,” Will says. “I finally remembered why.”

“You’re his murderer.”

“I didn’t know he was dead.”

Freddie cocks an eyebrow, not buying his lie. Will doesn’t blame her.

“Do you really think I’m that stupid?”

Will smiles, eyes flicking from her to the woods in front of them and back again.

“Say I did kill him,” Will murmurs, hand reaching into his pant pocket, his thumb twiddling with the damp cloth hidden it in. “How would you know?”

“I have sources.”

“What sources?”

“I got an anonymous tip. It didn’t take much to figure out the rest.”

“Do you always believe your anonymous tips?”

“The evidence matched,” Freddie answers, a look of realisation dawning on her face. “You did kill him. But why tell me?”

Will remains silent, hand firmly gripping the cloth. He can see Freddie growing more and more nervous with each passing second, as if she can sense the impending doom.

“Are you hoping it will work in your favour? Admit the act for a lesser sentence?”

“You think I’m afraid to do time?”

“You should be,” Freddie replies quickly. “Pretty ex-cop like you? You wouldn’t last long.”

“I know how to defend myself.”

Freddie ignores his statement. “I want to know one more thing, before I call Jack Crawford.”

“What’s that?”

“What does Hannibal Lecter have to do with it?”

Will smiles, his teeth bared. “Why do you assume he has something to do with it?”

“He has something to do with everything,” Freddie says, head tilting to the side. “You’d be surprised what some people have to say about him.”

“I don’t particularly care what some people say about him.”

“You should,” Freddie tells him. “What exactly is your relationship with him? Partners? In crime or otherwise? Do you frolic around, killing people together while playing the FBI?”

Will chuckles, the sound almost too loud in the open area. It’s darker now, the sun lower, the sky a more greyish blue than a striking orange; dim enough for Freddie to not see him remove the cloth from his pocket.

He moves swiftly. One arm reaches forward to pull her against his chest, his grip firm despite her struggles. He quickly places the chloroform soaked fabric against her mouth, holding it there forcefully until she makes a loud, gasping sound, mouth opening in need of air, involuntarily inhaling the chemicals.

From the corner of her eye, Freddie sees Hannibal emerge from the woods. Seconds later, her vision goes black, and her body goes limp against Will’s.

Will removes the cloth and steps back, letting her body drop to the floor face first. He places a foot on her back, pressing down with just enough to pressure to keep her pinned when she regains consciousness.

Stepping onto the porch, Hannibal smiles at him. His eyes are alight, almost carefree, as he leans across Freddie’s body to place a chaste kiss to Will’s mouth.

“Brilliant, my darling, deadly boy,” he murmurs, voice a mere whisper.

Will grins at the endearment, a hand reaching to grab Hannibal’s.

“Now for the _real_ fun.”

*

Jack slams the pone down, the urge to scream almost consuming him.

Fourteen times. He’d called fourteen times and had gotten no response from Will. Just the same, standard, monotone voicemail. Hannibal’s phone hadn’t even rung.  

He stands, wiping at his face angrily before walking out the room. He doesn’t have time to wait for them any longer.

Stopping in the door of the break room, he points in the general direction of Beverly, Brian, and Jimmy. “You three,” he calls, voice loud, almost a shout. “Let’s go.”

Giving each other a look, the three of them stand, quickly moving to Jack’s side and following him out the door.

“What happened?” Brian asks once it’s obvious no one else will.

“Freddie Lounds is missing. We were supposed to have an interview today, she’s not answering.”

“Ohh,” Brian nods. “You think something happened?”

“I think the Ripper happened.”

“Are you sure she’s not just being difficult?”

“That’s what we’re about to find out.”

*

Freddie’s apartment is quiet when they reach it, the door locked and no visible damages to the outside décor. Jack has to break the door down, the hinges coming undone easily under the full force of his strength.

There’s nothing off about the apartment when they look around; everything’s neat and tidy, no signs of a struggle. To be perfectly honest, Jack hadn’t expected one.

“There’s nothing here,” Beverly says, sighing. “She’s probably just busy.”

“Then where is she? And why isn’t she answering?”

“Her computer’s still out,” Jimmy says, nodding towards the laptop. “Maybe she has a calendar or something?”

“Open it.”

Brian nods and moves to the desk, fingers flying across the keyboard to get it open. It takes a moment, but he eventually finds the online calendar. Clicking on the current date, he shrugs. “You’re the only thing booked in for today.”

“Try yesterday then.”

Brian does as he’s told, eyes widening in surprise at what he finds. “Says she had an interview with Will last night.”

A string of curses leave Jack’s mouth, loud in the empty apartment. “Where?”

“His house.”

*

As they pull into Will’s driveway, it’s strikingly obvious something is wrong.

Freddie’s car is still parked next to the house, and there’s a trail of blood on the porch. The four of them move slowly, making sure not to disturb the scene. Beverly pushes the door open, gun raised as he steps inside first. They don’t have to look far to find what they’re searching for.

A single seater couch rests in front of them, and it in sits the body of an unmistakably dead Freddie Lounds.

Blood stains everything; her body, the couch, the floor beneath them. She sits as if she were alive, with one leg crossed over the other, her hands folded neatly in her lap. If it weren’t for the blood, her outfit would still be impeccable.

Jack stares, his eyes stopping at the incision under her chin, through which her tongue hangs.

They step further into the apartment, Jack and Beverly searching for Will while Jimmy and Brian crouch near Freddie, their gloved hands already probing and prodding.

“A Colombian necktie almost seems fitting,” Jimmy mumbles, looking away from the open wound and down her body. His gaze lands on Freddie’s lap, where a manila folder rests.

“He’s not here,” Jack shouts. “How could he not fucking be here? If the Ripper came here to kill Freddie, he would have taken Will as well.”

 “It might not be the Ripper,” Brian replies, biting his lip as he stares at the cut on Freddie’s chin. “The incision doesn’t display the normal signs of the Ripper. It’s not sloppy, it’s just…not surgical.”

“Because Will did it.”

Three heads snap towards Jimmy’s whispered voice, their confusion evident.

“ _What_?”

Jimmy waves the folder at them before passing it to Jack, looking away from the other man as he reads it. All colour drains from Jack’s face, his mouth opening in something between disbelief and anger as he stares at the paper, its corners stained in blood. It holds a hastily written message, the writing a familiar scrawl, that simply reads;

_Perhaps you should have suspected us._

_W.G_

He passes the paper to Beverly before speaking, his voice hard, detached.

“I want this house torn apart. And Lecter’s. I want to see each and every bit of evidence that tells us where they are and what they’ve done, do you understand me?”

Shocked by the news; of what’s in front of them, of what their friend has done, the three of them barely manage a nod in response.

 

 

**_Epilogue;_ **

****

Hand in hand, Will walks the streets of Florence with Hannibal, the sun shining bright above them.

A bell chimes as they step through the door of a small, independent shop, the sight of wine barrels and antique bottles greeting them. There’s a man behind the counter, of the same height and build as Hannibal, and neither of them miss the look he sends their conjoined hands.

The other people in the shop ignore them as they browse, Hannibal examining each bottle carefully. Will stays close the entire time, his body practically pressed against Hannibal’s as they move around the store. He can hear the shop owner conversing with a customer, but his Italian isn’t perfect, and he only makes out a few words.

They’ve been there just short of fifteen minutes when Hannibal replaces the bottle he’s looking at, choosing instead to grab Will’s hand. Bringing it to his mouth, he presses his lips against the gold band softly; voice a quiet murmur when he talks.

“That man just called us filthy faggots.”

“That’s horribly rude of him.”

Hannibal grins, the points of his teeth just barely visible as he wraps an arm around Will’s waist. Pulling his husband against him, Hannibal places a kiss to Will’s forehead.

“Don’t worry, my darling. I’m sure we’ll be back for something more to our taste.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who left kudos and gave kind comments, whether it be on here or over at my tumblr. Your support means a lot :) Until next time!


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